


Dangerous Mould

by Benfan



Series: Dangerous Mould [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Doctor John, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Sherlock poisoned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 42,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benfan/pseuds/Benfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is death coming in petri-dishes. Will John be able to save a poisoned Sherlock? (And this is incompetence coming in summaries. The story is better than the weak attempt at a summary! )<br/>It all starts with merely the petri-dish and leads to dark revelations about the Holmes family. </p><p> </p><p>I'm trying to post one chapter per day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scared

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy the read!

John was annoyed. Once again Sherlock had left him to do the grocery shopping. He _had_ promised **,** though **,** to go and get some milk and bread since both had been subjected to some of Sherlock's unfathomable experiments.

John wondered if he was trying to grow _Penicillium_ or something. Sherlock had just recently been quite sick and had almost caught pneumonia. John finally had to force him into taking antibiotics, which had just been commented by Sherlock with a flippant: "Dull." In a way, though, Sherlock had somehow been intrigued by John's sermon on the importance and the luck of having antibiotics. John wondered why, because Sherlock had a profound knowledge about antibiotics and the biochemistry behind them. Anyway, since then the milk and bread had disappeared curiously enough, although neither John nor Sherlock ate and drank much of them. Instead, the kitchen table was plastered with petri dishes growing colourful mould. They were nice to look at in a way, however, eating at that same table was impossible at the moment.

As John hadn't expected anything else but Sherlock forgetting about the shopping, he went to Tesco's himself one day when he really needed some hot tea _with_ milk. However, after another quarrel with the automatic check-out, John felt a slight anger rumbling in his gut. On his way home he had bumped into another pedestrian who had insulted him very unpleasantly. One of the milk cartons had fallen to the ground and split, the milk splattering John's trousers. In John's perception the other person had almost tackled him deliberately, but when he had finally collected himself to question the man, he had already run off.

So, when John got home, the anger in his gut had become very dominant and he felt like going into a rant against Sherlock, which would help to make him feel better.

John entered the flat, expecting to see Sherlock stretched out on the couch thinking or just pretending to be doing so. Before John had left for the shopping **,** Sherlock had been on the sofa and had shown barely any reaction to John's moaning about the missing milk. "Need to think", had been the only thing he had mumbled more or less to himself. John scanned the living-room but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock? Back from shopping!"

No reply. John sighed and went to the kitchen to store the shopping. He jumped a little when he saw Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table staring at the petri-dishes without actually seeing them.

"Need any milk for your experiments?" he teased Sherlock. He waited for a reaction, but none came.

"Sherlock! Saying hello has nothing to do with sentiment, so even you could condescend to do so!" John was really getting angry now. This hadn't been the best of days so far and the powder keg in John only needed a little spark to set it off.

He put down the shopping bag on the counter slightly more violently than would have been necessary **,** risking another split carton of milk. Turning around he shouted: "Sherlock! I am really, really pissed off…."

His voice trailed off when he noticed the expression on Sherlock's face. Was that … fear? No, impossible. There was nothing that could really worry the Consulting Detective. Due to his analytical mind and his denial of emotions in general there was nothing that John could think of that would scare Sherlock Holmes. Still, there was something in his expression that John had never seen before.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The addressed person finally looked at John, having slipped on his usual mask of indifference again.

"Nothing", was his brisk reply. He suddenly pushed the chair back, stood up and left the kitchen.

"Don't you _dare_ touch my petri-dishes!" he yelled, with a sudden change of emotion, then crossed the living-room and a second later John heard the door to Sherlock's room being slammed.

The shorter of the flatmates stood at the kitchen counter, flabbergasted. Over the time John had become used to Sherlock's changing moods, but this was strange. The exclamation about not touching the experiments had almost sounded panic-stricken. Also, Sherlock knew John wouldn't mess around with his flatmate's more or less scientific stuff. John's glance fell on the kitchen table. The petri dishes had been rearranged, most of them piled into towers. However, one of them was placed right in front of where Sherlock had just been sitting. Was that probably the cause of Sherlock's strange behaviour?

John walked around the table and examined the item closely, leaning over the kitchen table and yet refraining from touching it. There was mould growing in shades of orange and yellow in a couple of colonies. John didn't know what species it could be. He shrugged. He would have to ask Sherlock what, if anything at all, made this container so special that it hadn't been piled like the others and had possibly caused a pretty peculiar reaction from its owner.

Before turning away **,** John threw a last quick glance at the petri dish – and froze: the pattern of the colonies looked like a death's head. He hadn't seen it when looking at it from little distance. Maybe he only imagined it, but going by Sherlock's odd behaviour he had seen it, too, and it had scared him!


	2. Something's terribly wrong

Medical training had involved a good deal of microbiology, including practical exercises. John remembered that there were pretty nasty species of mould, some of them causing minor to major health problems, some even really dangerous, but it was quite unlikely that one could grow these accidentally with just bread and milk. If it were possible, the Environment Agency would have had a hard time of it, because traces of them would have to be in the food already. Plus, John knew that as long as the petri-dishes were sealed or at least not opened, there was little to no risk in handling them. The doctor examined the suspicious object once again. It wasn't sealed, just like the others weren't. Therefore, Sherlock wouldn't have expected to grow anything possibly hazardous. As much as the Consulting Detective despised many safety precautions as dull, boring, unnecessary and what not, he was usually careful when it came to his experiments – despite the fact that he didn't see any problem in storing severed parts of the human body in the same fridge as milk and vegetables.  
John also doubted that Sherlock would have developed a strange kind of humour recently, inoculating the culture mediums in morbid pictures. So this petri-dish probably wasn't one of his companion's.  
John wondered where it could have come from when and a vision of Moriarty's vicious smile crossed his mind. That creep had been playing games with Sherlock that, at some point, the Consulting Detective hadn't wanted to play anymore. People's lives had been at stake or even taken. This might possibly be another of the Consulting Criminal's twisted "pleasures". The doctor's hair stood on end and he wished that, if this had anything to do with Moriarty, it would just be a threat and nothing really dangerous.  
John had to interrogate his flatmate immediately if there was anything wrong with Sherlock's latest experiments and with the stubborn man himself.  
John hurried to Sherlock's room and knocked at the door, all his anger suddenly gone and replaced by worry.  
"Sherlock?"  
There was no answer from the inside.  
"Sherlock, I'm coming in."  
They had a silent agreement that the doors to their rooms wouldn't be locked. They would not enter the other one's room without permission, though. Since there still wasn't any reply, John pressed the door handle and opened the door slowly. He peered into the other man's room and expected to be yelled at or to be thrown out, but he only saw Sherlock curled up on his bed, not showing any reaction at all. He had his back turned to the door, so that John couldn't see his face. Sherlock seemed to be asleep and John knew that he could actually fall asleep very fast when done with an exhausting case, but there hadn't been any in the last couple of days, and his flatmate going to sleep in bright daylight was very peculiar.  
"Hey, mate, you ok?"  
John went over to the other side of the bed.  
"Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Answer me!"  
The older man shook the younger's shoulders. There was just a little moan coming from the Consulting Detective. If he had been asleep he would have woken up by his flatmate's quite strong shakes. The man on the bed seemed to be just semi-conscious, despite not being completely limp. John put his fingers to Sherlock's carotid artery and took the pulse. It was steady, yet really fast. Something was wrong!  
The doctor rolled his flatmate on the back and that very moment the tall man started to tremble violently. John was startled, but reacted instinctively. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled the number that he had always dreaded being forced to use. He had strict orders not to call an ambulance, if anything happened to Sherlock, since there had apparently been something in Sherlock's past that could not be taken care of in a regular hospital. John felt it had to do with his flatmate's former drug abuse, but he had never been given details. Instead, Mycroft had given John this number and instructed him to use it in case of an emergency of any kind that Sherlock was involved in.  
The call was taken instantly with a meagre "Yes, John?"  
"Mycroft, I need an emergency team, a toxicologist and microbiologist and whatever you have for possible bio-hazards over here immediately. There is something wrong with Sherlock. At the moment he's having a kind of seizure! Hurry up!"  
Actually, John was panicking. He didn't wait for any reply, threw his phone on the nightstand and knelt on the bed. He could be sure that Mycroft would send a whole army in just a second if necessary.  
John felt something creeping up his spine, something nasty and nagging and he was sure his face displayed the same expression as Sherlock's had a couple of minutes before – fear. He knew that in just a few seconds his adrenaline level would rise up to a range where fortunately he would only just be functioning and not thinking or feeling very much anymore, his parasympathetic system more or less being shut down. He took Sherlock's cushions and covered the hard edges of the nightstand with it so that his friend could not hurt his head in his seizure. The doctor tried to get hold of Sherlock's right arm and leg and when he finally managed to do so, he rolled him into a stable side position. This was just in time, because the shaking man started vomiting. John jumped from the bed without letting go of Sherlock, keeping him in position. Once again John felt his flatmate's pulse. It was far too fast and far too flat.  
"No, no, no, no, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here?! Come on, mate, calm down!"  
In fact, John wasn't sure who he actually addressed with the last words, they could as well have been meant for himself. Due to his patient's violent tremor he couldn't do very much but just make sure Sherlock wouldn't fall from his bed or hurt himself otherwise.  
And all of a sudden the seizure was over and Sherlock became limp.  
John quickly checked his vital signs and found that the pulse had gone to the other extreme – too slow and still too flat.  
The doctor thought it was safe for the moment to roll Sherlock back in order to get him out of the vomit that was soaking his bedding. He managed to roll it out from under the limp person and dumped it on the floor.  
He scrutinized the younger man and was terrified by his complexion. The usual paleness had even been replaced by an unhealthy shade of grey – a deadly shade of grey; but upon checking once again on Sherlock John couldn't find a change either for the better or for the worse. The doctor, however, knew that this very slow heartbeat could easily result in cardiac arrest if it got worse. He wished that Mycroft's men would arrive very soon.  
"What's wrong with you, huh? Tell me, because I can't deduce it!"  
John knew he was speaking to himself, because there was no answer to be expected from an unconscious man; therefore his heart skipped a beat when he heard his best make a sound: "T…-t…" he obviously tried to say something but couldn't get the word out. He inhaled and tried again:  
"Fish… smell…" was what Sherlock more or less hissed, his speech slightly above a whisper, very slurred and almost unintelligible, his eyes remaining shut.  
"What are you trying to say?"  
John leaned in as close to Sherlock's mouth as possible and hoped the spoken words would make some sense to him, but his friend didn't say anything more.  
"Sherlock, listen! Has your current condition anything to do with the petri-dish on the kitchen table? If yes, just try to nod or tap my hand."  
John slid his hand under Sherlock's in case he wouldn't be able to nod and felt the faintest tap on his skin.  
"Is it life-threatening?"  
Another tap, not very much more than a tiny movement.  
"Can you tell me what it is? Sherlock!"  
Something that sounded like "Wha…" was the only thing John could understand before Sherlock went completely limp again.  
Sherlock's words didn't make any sense to John. Fish, Smell, and the other fragments didn't give him a clue about the content of the petri-dish. John didn't know how much time had passed since he had made the emergency call to Mycroft. It felt like hours, although it could only be minutes. He knew that even Mycroft needed some time. Again John checked Sherlock's vital signs and sent a quick prayer to heaven that help would come soon. He was very worried about the bradycardia and his flatmate showed signs that the doctor couldn't find an explanation for. His skin was shining with sweat and, oddly enough, Sherlock was drooling. It could have been funny if the situation in general hadn't been so serious. However, after a brief moment, there was so much saliva that John rolled his friend back into the safe position on his right side to make sure he didn't choke on it. John hadn't seen this before in his medical career.  
"Damn, Sherlock, either your mould has mutated into something very evil, or somebody very evil has his hands in this!" The doctor fought against the adrenaline which blocked his brain. He had to think!  
What Sherlock had told him didn't make any sense, yet there had to be some! T… and wha…, fish and smell. Something smelled of fish, most likely the contents of the suspicious petri-dish. The doctor wished he had Sherlock's ability to retreat into a mind palace to search for information, to visualize things to himself in order to find a missing piece to a puzzle, in this case the missing letters to two words.  
Suddenly Sherlock made a gurgling sound, which John had heard too many times before. It was the sound of death, of the last breath drawn.


	3. Again

"Shit, shit, shit," was all that John could say and think of.

He quickly pulled Sherlock from the bed, ignoring the fact that the tall man hit the floor quite hard. The doctor needed something flat and firm for his flatmate to lie on. Knowing that nothing else would help anymore, John took a deep breath and blew it into his friend's mouth – one, two – then started pressing his thorax almost violently – one, two, three…. Strangely enough John had to think of something that he had been taught at Barts: Sing "Staying alive…" and you have the appropriate speed for resuscitation. It was really ridiculous to be reminded of that while trying to save your flatmate and best friend's life!

"Don't you dare to just die under my hands, you bloody prat!" John barked.

John went on, the annoying melody of the BeeGees song in his subconscious,… give respiration: one, two… press: one, two, three, four….twenty-nine, thirty… He was soaked with sweat and exhausted, but John wouldn't let go of Sherlock. After a time that felt endless, Sherlock took a flat breath and the doctor sank back, now sitting on his lower legs and looking at the tall man.

"You scared me to death!" he scolded.

Although in the back of his brain John knew that giggling now was completely inappropriate, his relief tried to find an outlet.

After a brief moment of letting his emotions take control of him, his doctor mode kicked in again and he checked Sherlock's vital signs. The heartbeat was still very slow, the breathing flat, but at least he was alive! John knew that what had just happened was very likely to happen again if the bradycardia wouldn't go away.

John let his fingers at Sherlock's pulse, just in case of any change and tried to think. Wha… - like what, water, was, war, want,… and many other words. Far too many! Smell and fish made sense in a way, if Sherlock had indeed meant that the contents of the container smelled of fish, but even of that John wasn't sure.

"Fish, fish, fish, fish…. John, THINK!"

Somehow the doctor had a faint feeling that in the farthest part of his mind he did have an idea, and that a bell had already started ringing there. It was something, however, that he knew from a completely different context, another life, he felt.

All of a sudden, Sherlock went into convulsions again. It only lasted seconds and then he was motionless. John had lost the carotid artery and when he found it again the pulse he felt was extremely weak and suddenly gone.

"No, SHERLOCK!" he yelled, starting resuscitation once again, yet knowing that this time it needed a miracle to be successful. The doctor's eyes swam and a teardrop made its way down on Sherlock's chest. The crying man blew air into his friend's mouth, pressed and blew and pressed and blew, not knowing if there was any chance of bringing Sherlock back to life.


	4. Solving a riddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I'm sooo sorry! I posted the wrong chapter yesterday! This one was missing! I'm really, really sorry!

John felt a tight grip on his shoulder. Only then did he notice that Mycroft's men and Mycroft himself had entered the flat already.

"John, back! Defibrillation!"

The addressed individual was drawn away from the limp body forcefully and sat down hard on his bottom. One of the men already had the device ready, another one ripped Sherlock's shirt apart and quickly placed the electrodes on his body.

"Back!"

This was a nightmare that John wished he would wake up from instantly. He saw Sherlock's chest rise from the electric shock, but there was no sound coming from the heart monitor of the defibrillator. John felt completely numb when he watched the medical team give it another try – nothing.

John felt something cold spreading in his guts, which could only be described as sheer terror! He was aware of the fact that more than three times of defibrillation didn't make sense. The likelihood of being successful went close to zero.

So he sent another silent prayer to heaven: Please, God, let him live! John wasn't a religious man, but it had worked for him once, as simple as it was.

And there it was, after the third time– the relieving beep…beep…beep…!

John released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding and let his tears stream down his cheeks.

Mycroft approached his brother's flatmate, having watched the scene emotionlessly, or so it seemed.

"John, we need to talk, I beg you to pull yourself together! Explain what is going on here!"

The doctor threw a blurred glance over his shoulder and saw that the flat was crowded with people in white and blue overalls carrying a lot of equipment, waiting for his report. As fast and steady as his voice and state of mind allowed, yet not averting his gaze from his friend and the medical team who were intubating him and fixing an IV cannula on the back of his hand, John gave a description of the incident.

Mycroft ordered his men to examine the suspicious petri-dish and to search the flat for anything that could give them a clue as to Sherlock's state. The tall man turned to John again.

"And you? Are you ok?" He frowned.

John gave a nod, despite feeling slightly nauseous and dizzy, which could definitely be explained by his exhaustion. He tried to concentrate on the thought processes he had had before the Consulting Detective's second cardiac arrest.

"Sir", said one of the medical team with an urgent undertone, "we don't know how long we can keep up his vital functions without knowing what the cause of these reactions is. We will most likely not be able to resuscitate him one more time."

John dimly noticed that Mycroft was talking to the man in quite an unfriendly tone. Apparently, this was his way of showing sorrow. The doctor knew that Mycroft did care about his brother, otherwise he wouldn't have been given the emergency number.

John himself tried to clear the cotton wool that was his brain. Fish, wha…, fish, wha…

He distantly perceived that the kitchen had been sealed with curtains of plastic film, blurring the shapes of the persons moving behind them. From what the former soldier could see they were wearing gas masks. John was reminded of the other life he had once led. Mainly during his military training he had been forced to wear those masks, always finding it hard to work with them properly.

"Dr. Watson!"

John jumped at the sound of his title and last name being called by Mycroft. The stiffest person the former soldier had ever known had condescended to calling him by his first name some time ago. John assumed that he had been called a couple of times before and simply hadn't noticed.

"John, have you got the slightest idea what Sherlock could have meant by the words he said?"

"No," he hesitated, "… but there is something that I can't grasp."

"Then, please, do your best and THINK!" Mycroft had rid himself of his usual arrogance for just one second, his face then displaying deep concern. So, John had been right about the caring issue.

"Sir, there is a brownish liquid covering the surface of the culture medium. It doesn't seem to be a mycotoxine though. Seems as if it had been added after the breeding of the cultures. We cannot identify it at the moment."

One of the men in a blue overall had approached Mycroft and had taken down the gas mask.

"Hurry up then and do identify it!" was Mycroft's brisk though slightly croaky reply. He had managed again to hide his emotions almost perfectly, only his slightly croaky voice and a light tapping of the fingers of his right hand to his thigh revealed his agitation.

The bell in John's subconscious rang louder. A brownish liquid, fish smell and wha…, wha… - WAR! Suddenly everything shifted into place, all the pieces fitting together.

"Mycroft! Mycroft! Listen! Tabun! It's Tabun! The smell of fish, a brownish liquid, and WAR, that was the word, it wasn't a fragment, and the 't'! Tabun is a nerve agent, a chemical weapon! Sherlock knew what he had been exposed to! He needs atropine! Immediately!"

"Are you sure, John? You know, if you're wrong, administration of atropine will definitely kill Sherlock!"

"I am sure! Excessive salivation and sweating, bradycardia, convulsions, nausea – all these symptoms fit overexposure to Tabun! Give him atropine! NOW! I don't know how much time has already passed since the exposure, but we're running out of it! GIVE HIM ATROPINE! Tabun blocks the acetycholinesterase so that re-uptake of acetylcholin into the synapse is prevented. If you don't give him atropine within half an hour after exposure nothing in the world will save your brother!"

Suddenly John was extremely nauseous and only just managed to look away from Mycroft when he started vomiting violently. He vaguely noticed somebody catching him when he passed out.


	5. Sci-Fi nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very sorry! I posted the wrong chapter yesterday! You might have wondered why there was a gap in the plot. Right, I changed the order, so this is chapter 5, chapter 4 is the newly updated chapter, but the one that goes before this one. Sorry!   
> Enjoy anyway! To make up for my mistake, I'm going to post another chapter today.

A rhythm of beeps was the first thing John perceived semi-consciously. There were two different beeps playing a strange but soothing melody, one faster, one slower. They were accompanied by muffled background sounds.

John tried to fight himself back into consciousness, because he felt that there was some important reason to be conscious. What was it? He simply couldn't remember.

After some time the sounds became clearer and John noticed they were voices, quite a few of them. Nevertheless, he couldn't figure out who they belonged to. There was a throbbing pain in his head and he felt nauseous.

Suddenly he remembered and it sent a flash through his body: Sherlock!

He had been poisoned with a nerve agent! Its production was generally dangerous and needed special laboratories. How the hell did Sherlock get into contact with a nerve agent? Oh, …the petri-dish!

John struggled into consciousness and felt an IV attached to his hand as well as electrodes fixed on his chest. So, one of the beeping sounds was recording his own heartbeat. Why did he have an IV and a heart monitor attached to him? He took a deep breath and noticed that he was also wearing a breathing mask. He had apparently blacked out, but why did he need all the medical equipment?

The other beeps – were they Sherlock's? John hoped that they wouldn't belong to somebody else having passed out.

"Dr Watson? Can you hear me?" A distant voice called him.

"Hmm..." was all John could utter. He forced his eyes open and found himself in a kind of Sci-Fi-nightmare. The creature above him was wearing a mask, as did all creatures in his vision. No, this wasn't science fiction, this was war – and John was right in the middle of it! Slightly panicking, he tried to look around without moving his aching head too much. Above him they had erected a kind of canopy. John wondered why his vision still seemed to be blurred. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, but noticed then that it wasn't his vision but the room itself that was foggy.

John tried to get sight of Sherlock. He needed to know if Sherlock was alive! He flinched when he tried to support himself on his lower arms. He felt terrible, but his sorrow made him move.

"Sir, it's safe now."

One of the men in full cover nodded slightly and took off the gas mask. It was Mycroft. The mask was by far the strangest thing John had ever seen on the man. The fog in the rooms was settling slowly and the ex-army man figured that they had sprayed Soda to oxidize the nerve agent. As vicious as Tabun was, it was relatively easy to make it inactive.

John slowly turned his head around and saw Sherlock still lying in the same place John had dragged him for resuscitation. He had the same apparatus attached to him as John. He was still incredulously pale, but the beeps were definitely coming from his heart monitor. John sighed with relief and shifted his weight onto one arm, freeing a hand to get rid of the breathing mask. He wanted to talk to Mycroft and find out more about his flatmate's condition.

"Mycroft." The doctor's voice was still weak, but the addressed man came up to him and –to John's surprise – crouched down next to him.

"John, welcome back."

"What's all this?" With the breathing mask John pointed down at the cables fixed on his chest.

"You had been exposed to the Tabun, too, although apparently much less than my brother. You were also given a dose of atropine. I do have to thank you for your fast reaction in calling me instantly and in diagnosing what harm had been done to my brother. We do not yet know whether Sherlock will recover, however, every second until the administration of atropine counted. I am very grateful."

This was more than John had ever thought Mycroft would be capable of. He gave the older man a slight smirk to show his appreciation.

"How's he doing?" he managed to ask.

"We can do nothing more to save him apart from trying to keep his breathing and circulation steady. The atropine has worked, yet my brother will go through a good deal of pain and discomfort."

John knew that this had been pure understatement. Further medical treatment that would make the Acetylcholinesterase work again would be necessary. So far only the post-synaptic depolarisation had been interrupted. Sherlock wasn't safe, but at least alive, and the more time passed the better was his chance of survival.

"How long since I called you?"

"One and a half hours."

"Well, that's a good sign, isn't it? Sherlock is still alive after this time. "

"Yes, indeed. We will take the two of you to a clinic now. We think it is safe to transport Sherlock. The team will clean your flat during your recovery."

John nodded and threw a worried glance at Sherlock. Usually Tabun killed within two hours after exposure. However, depending on the dose, it might take longer. But after the three cardiac arrests that Sherlock had survived and the administration of atropine, the ex-army doctor was convinced that Mycroft's men had arrived just in time to save the Consulting detective.

Both John and Sherlock were lifted onto a stretcher and taken to a van. The car didn't look like an ambulance, though, and the medical equipment inside did not resemble that provided in a normal ambulance. It looked like an intensive care unit with everything you could think of. There were three places for stretchers on the sides. John and Sherlock were put in view of each other. The doctor felt safe and felt that Sherlock would be safe too. So, he closed his eyes and let himself drift into a welcome unconsciousness again.


	6. Waking up

When John regained consciousness once more, he still had a terrible headache- the aftermath of the nerve agent. He hadn't even touched the petri-dish with the hazardous liquid, but he was aware that contamination could even occur through the eyes and that Tabun was extremely toxic in very small amounts. However, John was sure that the dose he had got wouldn't have been lethal. In his still semi-conscious state **,** the picture of Sherlock lying on the floor motionlessly crossed his mind and John felt a nagging sorrow that he wasn't sure at all about the dose his friend had been exposed to.

While struggling into full consciousness, John again heard beeps in two slightly different tones, but this time the pace wasn't as distinct as it had been the last time he had heard them after Sherlock's last resuscitation and his own collapse. With fluttering eyelids, John finally managed to open his eyes and was greeted by dazzling white. John flinched, the bright lights stabbing his eyes painfully.

Immediately, the light in the room was dimmed. John turned his head and saw a man dressed in white alongside Mycroft, who was looking at him. Behind the two there was another bed, and there was Sherlock, still motionless, lying bare-chested and attached to a lot of tubes and cables. John couldn't see his flatmate's face, however, he recognised him by his distinctive profile. The two men were standing in front of the upper part of his bed and blocking his view.

"Good morning, John, we sensed the light might be slightly uncomfortable. We hope this is better for you," Mycroft said with the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Morning?" John's voice was slightly croaky and he tried to clear it. "You sure 'bout 'morning'?"

"Oh, yes, you were unconscious for quite a while. But don't worry, you will be fine."

John blinked his eyes – he hadn't realised that he'd been out cold for so long.

"How's _he_ doing?" John lifted his head as much as the pain in it allowed him toand pointed in Sherlock's direction.

"Thanks to your diagnosis, Dr Watson, he has survived. He has not regained consciousness, yet, and he is still in danger of seizures. His vital signs, however, are stable for the time being, but we'll only know if he's over the worst when he wakes up. Plus, … he has got a few broken ribs due to the CPM you carried out on him," the man next to Mycroft informed John.

"I see," John said weakly, relieved that at least Sherlock was still alive and not in immediate danger any more. He didn't have to feel guilty about the broken ribs, which could hardly have been avoided under such circumstances.

Mycroft pierced John with his gaze, then, raising an eyebrow, said, "I was right, wasn't I?"

"Right? About what?"

"You _did_ miss the war. You did very well under these highly stressful circumstances – with the most pleasant outcome that my brother is alive. This little war that you have just gone through has been proof enough."

John found Mycroft's smile slightly creepy and suddenly felt uneasy. He didn't want to hear Mycroft's theory, although he had to admit to himself that there _had_ to be at least a little truth in it. The exhausted man let his head fall onto the cushion again without commenting on what Mycroft had just stated as a matter of fact. Why couldn't that git just let him be? And yet, his war experiences, his instinctive acting under stress and his specific knowledge about chemical weapons _had_ saved his friend's life.

John changed the subject.

"Where are we?"

"You are in, let's say, a private clinic under the best treatment _and_ surveillance that you can imagine."

"Surveillance?" John asked disbelievingly.

"You have just survived a nerve gas attack! What do you expect?"

John realized that, again, Mycroft was indeed correct, so he weakly responded with a grumbled "Yeah." Mycroft's ability to see through people and to state obvious, yet unpleasant facts was almost as good as Sherlock's.

Despite Mycroft's annoying coldness and disdain, John was convinced that he had spoken nothing but the truth at their second meeting **,** after John had saved Sherlock's life for the first time. He _was_ concerned. To be fair, he _did_ state it on a regular basis; however, since he didn't show it emotionally, it was hardly believable. Apparently, his way of showing his concern was to provide everything that was necessary to save his brother's life; and this time John was really glad that Mycroft did occupy a "minor" position in the British government, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to save Sherlock and maybe also himself.

"We will let you rest now, John, but I do have questions! I will get back on you later. Dr Smith, here, will take care of you and my brother. If there is anything that you need, let him know. I have to excuse myself, since I am currently occupied with most urgent matters. Get better, John." Mycroft bade him good-bye and left.

Dr Smith patted John's shoulder, threw a last glance at Sherlock, and followed Mycroft.

Rooms tended to become too small when Mycroft was in them, his presence filling every cubic centimetre; therefore, John was relieved that he was on his own, finally being able to get a full look of Sherlock.

He was still as white as the sheets, but despite the ordeal that he had gone through, his face looked quite peaceful. At least, John thought, he isn't in pain. He felt the urge to talk to his roommate, but didn't really know what to say. So, he simply stated what was troubling him most.

"Sherlock, do me a favour, will you? – NEVER EVER … SCARE ME… TO DEATH AGAIN! Did you get that?!"

John was surprised that he had actually yelled at Sherlock. And yet, the regular beeping was the only reply he got.

John felt his throat become narrow and had to fight back tears. What was the matter with him? He'd been such a wet blanket lately! That was - annoying! He had to admit, though, that he had really been terrified by the thought of possibly losing Sherlock. Plus, the _really_ horrifying thing, which made his hair stand on end, was that the person who had tried to kill Sherlock once, would probably and very likely try it again.

Another thought suddenly crossed John's mind: was it possible that he himself had even been the target? John reckoned that, as opposed to Sherlock, he simply didn't have enemies other than probably Moriarty, who considered John Sherlock's pet. Killing somebody's pet would very likely hurt its master, so maybe that had been the intended outcome. If the Consulting Criminal had been the source of the poisonous petri-dish, even the most outlandish ideas had to be taken into account, since that man was a vicious and dangerous lunatic!

However, John had a distinct feeling that, most likely, he himself hadn't been the target of this attack, because usually he wouldn't touch Sherlock's experiments.

John sighed and contemplated what had happened: Sherlock's behaviour when John had got home from the grocery shopping had been very strange. He was sure that if Sherlock hadn't been under the influence of the toxic substance, he would have been able to tell him instantly what the petri-dish had contained. He was sure that under these circumstances Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to play games with him. He _knew_ that John simply didn't have the Consulting Detective's ability to deduce things. John had sensed from the words Sherlock had uttered, though, that his flatmate still had to have been aware that the ex-army doctor would have specific knowledge about nerve gases. After all, he was also sure that Sherlock hadn't simply retreated to his bedroom to die a lonely death, so why had he run off? Had he simply been out of his mind? Probably he hadn't been aware of the fact that Tabun worked so quickly.

Yet, the crucial questions remained how the petri-dish had found its way into their flat and, of course, how the nerve-agent had got into the respective petri-dish. John was drained. Despite having taken all the available and obvious facts into consideration, there were still so many open questions, but John couldn't deduce the answers – he just wasn't Sherlock Holmes!


	7. Waking part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd be happy if you left a comment.

John was interrupted in his thoughts when he noticed a change in the pace of beeps coming from Sherlock's heart monitor. They had become a little faster and the pale man moaned quietly, a faint tremble running through his body.

John tried to get rid of the electrodes of his own controlling devices. Due to the slight tremor in his hands and the splitting headache, he had to fumble a bit to wiggle out of the cables. When John had disconnected the first cable, his heart monitor set off the alarm at once, alerting Dr Smith and the nurse, who, only seconds later, hurried into the room, grasping the situation instantly.

"Dr Watson, you have a bell-push to call us! You can't just rid yourself of the medical equipment without our permission! You are a medical man yourself, you _should_ know better! You _have_ already been put in the same room as Mr Holmes, so that you wouldn't go wandering off, so, please…!" Dr Smith ranted.

John raised his hands apologetically.

"I'm fine! I really just wanted to check on him. I think he will wake up soon."

"If that is the case that's good news, indeed, but you _are_ to call us! Remember, you are off duty at the moment and have no authority here!"

"Yes, ok," John replied, pretending to be remorseful, "but can you help me then?"

"I will examine you first, and then we'll decide."

John gave in and endured the examination. With a pen-flashlight Dr Smith checked the reaction of his pupils, which made John flinch. They were still dilated, a side-effect of the atropine; his other reflexes were a bit lame, but not to an alarming extent. After having checked on the data the monitors had registered, the doctor nodded approvingly.

"I think you can be freed of the heart monitor, but the IV cannula has to stay in place and you still need the drip."

"Good. Fine," John said. He was aware that he was being administered a couple of necessary fluids through the IV, like painkillers (how bad would the headache be without them?!), electrolytes and possibly also Diazepam, which would prevent the severe depression that was likely to occur after Tabun poisoning. In the very back of his mind John wondered if Sherlock was also being given Diazepam since this would be quite risky, taking his history of drug abuse into account. He pushed the thought away, feeling that this would definitely be something Mycroft would have alerted the medical team to. After all, that's why they were here and not in a regular hospital.

The nurse disentangled the cables and helped John into a hospital gown, for which he thanked her with the nicest smile his face was capable of producing. The woman wasn't notably attractive and not really John's cup of tea, but the doctor considered it to be possibly useful to have her on his side. He was slightly embarrassed by his intentional manipulation of people – that was so Sherlock-like, not John-like.

John swung his legs out of the bed and was just about to get up when he started feeling extremely dizzy, swaying slightly.

"Overestimated our recovery a bit, have we, Dr Watson?" the nurse teased.

John grumbled an unintelligible reply, but let the nurse support him. He blinked and checked if the room was still spinning. He was ready to give it another try, and this time it went better.

The nurse handed a dressing gown to John that had been resting on a chair close to his bed. John put it on and, under the scrutinizing eyes of Dr Smith and with the nurse's help, made shaky steps towards Sherlock's bed.

After helping John into a seat and placing the drip stand next to him, the nurse and Dr Smith left the room, once again reminding the patient of his duty to inform them of any changes to Sherlock's or his own condition. John knew that both of them were still at risk of some very unpleasant after-effects of the Tabun poisoning.

John's heart turned over at his first proper view of Sherlock's condition. The Consulting Detective was very still on his bed, his breathing still supported by the tracheal intubation, and the skin of his bare thorax almost as white as the electrode pads of the heart monitor.

The only sounds in the room were the regularly interrupting hisses of the respirator and the beeping of the heart monitor.

John lifted his free hand and tentatively lowered it over his friend's face. He touched Sherlock's cheek and forehead cautiously; a checking and comforting gesture that John had made hundreds of times on his patients. However, on Sherlock it felt very peculiar. This was his friend. (Oh, if anybody saw –people _would_ talk!) And yet, it was only meant to reach into Sherlock's unconscious state and let him know that someone was caring for him.

Sherlock shifted slightly, causing John's heartbeat to speed up in anticipation. If Sherlock woke up, they would be able to find out if he had survived without suffering any damage to his extraordinary brain. The Consulting Detective's eyelids fluttered open and immediately closed again. Due to his own experience John knew the reason for this reaction: Sherlock's headache had to be even more terrible than his own. Finally, Sherlock managed to open his eyes and after a few clearing blinks, seemingly disoriented, he set his gaze on John. He closed his lips around the catheter, obviously attempting to speak, but the tube in his windpipe prevented this.

"Shush…, the intubation has to be removed first," John told the man on the bed comfortingly.

Although John felt he could generally do that as well, he didn't want to upset the medical staff and he also had to admit to himself that he didn't trust his own abilities at the moment. Hence, he pressed the bell-button and, almost instantly, the doctor and his nurse entered. Most probably they had been detailed to taking care of just these two patients by the personified British Government himself.

"He's awake and needs the tube removed," John explained.

"Very well, but let's first check how he's doing."

Dr Smith examined Sherlock thoroughly, finally nodding his approval. In a very calm way he instructed his patient what to do to help them remove the breathing aid. Sherlock was unusually obedient and so it only took a moment until his airway was free again. He started coughing and flinched. John wondered how much pain Sherlock had to be in. The increasing speed of the heart monitor beeps gave proof to John's assumption that Sherlock was suffering a lot.

Dr Smith went to one of the IV bags and opened it slightly more, the droplets falling into the drip chamber more quickly.

"How are you doing, mate?" John gave Sherlock a genuine smile, an expression of his relief.

"Fine," was his hoarse and rather weak reply, his eyes still shut, "…thirsty!" John knew that "fine" had been a whopping lie, however, it meant that Sherlock was all himself.

The nurse was about to bring a feeding cup of water up to Sherlock's mouth, but John took it from her hands and did it himself. Sherlock took a small sip, then whispered, "Humiliating!"

John smirked. "It's all fine. Just wait till you're 85, you'll be used to it by then."

John threw a glance at the nurse and nodded once to give her to understand that they would be fine without them. She herself looked at Dr Smith questioningly and when the man signalled that it was alright, the two left.

Sherlock looked at John, then closed his eyes.

"What happened?" Sherlock rasped with a strained look on his face.

"To cut a long story short, we've just had World War II in our kitchen and have narrowly escaped a nerve gas attack."

Sherlock's eyes shot open, which he regretted instantly, flinching and blinking.

"Ooh…," was his only verbal reaction.

Once again he fought to keep his eyes open and raised his head a little, first looking himself up and down, and then John.

"Ex…plain!" he briefly ordered, the effort it took him clearly visible in his voice and facial expression.

John gave a more or less detailed report on the facts, avoiding telling Sherlock about his two cardiac arrests and his own participation in bringing him back to life.

"Sherlock, how could that damn petri-dish have got into our kitchen?!"

Once again the Consulting Detective uttered a meagre "Oh!", however, this time it didn't sound surprised. Instead there was a slight undertone of annoyance, as much as his voice was capable of producing different tones at all.

"That bloody errand boy," Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth, "I _knew_ something was wrong with him!"


	8. Errand boy

"Errand boy? What errand boy?"

With some effort Sherlock managed to explain.

"I had some of the petri-dishes sent to Barts to have them incubated there – it's not possible to keep an even temperature in other than an incubator. They were due that day and had been delivered by an errand boy."

"Errand boy," John mused, "What did he look like?" He had a vague feeling that he had to have met the guy, since Sherlock's exposure to the Tabun couldn't have been long before he had got home. Suddenly things shifted into place in John's mind. Sherlock's meticulous description resembled the man that John had had the unpleasant encounter with on his way home from Tesco's.

"Errand boy! So, that git _did_ tackle me deliberately!"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock requested, his voice, despite its hoarseness, sounding even more annoyed. Apparently, he didn't like that he couldn't deduce what John had seen.

John explained the little incident with the spilt milk.

"That was right around the corner of 221b. I _did_ have a feeling that the guy hadn't just accidentally bumped into me. He had to keep me away from you for long enough to make sure that you would be sufficiently exposed to the nerve agent!"

"You deduce…", Sherlock added his acknowledgement.

"Huh?" John was baffled. "Er, yes. Yes, I deduce." He smirked and looked down at his hands. Was that a compliment?

"John."

The doctor looked up, amazed by the seriousness in Sherlock's voice.

"You haven't told me everything."

"What do you mean?"

John felt his cheeks blush slightly, sensing that they were entering uncomfortable terrain.

"Look at me. If I have been poisoned with Tabun, there will have been reactions in my body to it other than just passing out, as you have told me."

The doctor sighed. Apparently, Sherlock had really been out of his mind by the time John had come back from the shopping. Seemingly, he didn't recall anything about the incident anymore.

"What do you remember?" John asked, examining Sherlock's face for any signs of recollection.

"Hmm…, more or less nothing." Sherlock gave John an intense look. "How serious, John?"

The doctor sighed.

"Very."

Sherlock nodded slightly and involuntarily groaned due to the pain that the movement caused him.

"You resuscitated me," he stated.

John looked down at his hands again, feeling a little embarrassed. He hadn't intended to tell Sherlock anything about this part.

"Yup, but…"

"How often?" Sherlock interrupted him.

John raised his eyes, now looking right into his flatmate's face.

"How do you know it was more than once?"

"My ribcage hurts like hell, most likely, some ribs are broken. So, either it took very long, which I don't think, going by your current fitness, or you pumped on me like crazy, _or…_ it was more than once."

Oh, Sherlock was already being very Sherlock-like, John thought, somehow relieved and irritated at the same time.

"All three, I reckon," he said, "As to my fitness, … eh, forget it…" John's voice trailed off, he wasn't in the mood and the physical state to argue with his flatmate about his lacking fitness.

The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing, which caused both Sherlock and John flashes of pain. Sherlock was exhausted, groaning slightly and closing his eyes again; John wasn't sure if he himself wouldn't slip off his chair feeling his view narrowed by black margins that clearly hinted on a not so distant faint. He tried to collect himself.

"So, how often?" Sherlock demanded.

"Once all by myself and another one that you definitely wouldn't have survived, if Mycroft's men hadn't arrived just in time."

Sherlock was quiet.

"I can't remember the last bit, though, 'cause I myself had blacked out by then."

"Yes, you got a dose, too. That's why we're both here."

"You deduce...," John stated, causing Sherlock to snort, avoiding another painful laugh.

Despite the effort it took him, Sherlock lifted his hand and stretched it out to John. The doctor hesitated, but took the hand in his own, feeling Sherlock's grip. His flatmate's eyelids opened again and he locked eyes with John.

"Thank you," he whispered, and pressed his friend's hand as firmly as his weak state allowed.

John went all goose-pimply, convinced that for the first time Sherlock genuinely meant it.

"Anytime, Sherlock, anytime."

The last twenty-four hours, as horrible as they had been, had revealed something that John wouldn't have expected to happen in his entire life: The Holmes brothers had verbally expressed an emotion John would never have imagined them capable of – gratefulness.


	9. Undisclosed Hospital

John and Sherlock spent the next couple of days drifting in and out of consciousness, completely overwhelmed by the after-effects of the Tabun poisoning and the atropine treatment. John's brain felt like cotton wool, thanks to his Diazepam treatment; and he didn't want to think about anything but sleeping and drinking, as one very unpleasant side-effect of the detoxification was being permanently thirsty.

The first two days in the clinic Sherlock had even suffered some more minor seizures, each time leaving him extremely exhausted and scaring John out of his mind. The doctor knew that it was not unusual for that to happen to survivors of severe nerve gas poisoning; nevertheless, he was always reminded of the cardiac arrests Sherlock had gone through, and his own fear of losing him.

The times John was awake as wide as the amount of drugs in his body allowed, he kept wondering what clinic it was they were hospitalized in, and where it was.

The room Sherlock and John had been put into could almost be described as cosy, clearly not resembling an ordinary hospital room. The light was still dimmed because of their persistent sensitivity to it; the curtains of the large windows were mostly drawn, yet being transparent enough to let some light through them, so that the frame of the mullioned window cast a shadow against the curtains. The walls were painted in a warm cream tone, the Queen smiling at them illustriously from a huge oil-painting on the opposite wall of their beds, its luxuriantly decorated, old-fashioned frame making a clear contrast to the modern appearance of the rest of the room.

The room's furniture was made of a fine light-coloured wood, instead of the easy-to-sterilize items usually found in a hospital ward. Near the window there were two comfortable-looking leather armchairs and a round table with a bowl of fruit placed in its centre. Everything seemed to be practical and yet of the finest quality and design. Posh, that's what it could best be described as. Even the medical equipment in the room, standard though it was,reinforced this impression. It was all high-tech, and John was sure that it was of the most modern technology.

Attached to the room there was a bathroom as luxurious as the patients' room itself. Although John wasn't the kind of man who attached importance to such niceties as a full gloss bathroom with the towels matching the colours of the tiles, one could get used to having a shower that was as big as their whole bathroom in Baker Street. Unfortunately, John couldn't enjoy it as much as he would have loved to as both his dizziness and the annoying drip stand prevented that.

John had got up from his bed a couple of times to catch a glimpse of what was outside. From what he could see, they were in a kind of mansion that was located in either a very large park or somewhere lonely in the countryside. There was nothing but the green-brownish shade of the winter grass and leafless trees as far as the eye could see. John felt the urge to explore the building and go outside for a walk to figure out where they were, but his legs still wouldn't allow – as probably Mycroft's people wouldn't as well. For the time being he had to be contented with what he could find out from his bed.

On the rare occasions that she was in the room without Dr Smith present, usually to bring the meals, the ex-army doctor had tried to engage Nurse Sunny in a conversation about the place, but she didn't enter it, remaining amiable yet aloof. John was convinced that Sunny wasn't actually her real name any more than 'Dr Smith's' was his - precautions of the British Government as personified by Mycroft, he assumed.

John had a feeling that Sherlock knew more about the place, since he himself hadn't made any enquiries at all, which was very much unlike him. Most of the time Sherlock didn't speak much anyway, just slept a lot. Every now and then John heard him moan, sometimes even whimper in his sleep. As peculiar and frightening as it was to hear the Consulting Detective whimpering like a child, it was also soothing to know that he was alive and more or less over the worst.

From time to time, when Sherlock had been awake enough that he was actually able to speak, John had tried to question him about the location among other things, but all that the Consulting Detective would reveal was that it was most likely they were in a government hospital, places that were kept secret and under the best surveillance. So, either he knew where they were or at least it didn't bother him. On the one hand, that information put John a little at ease again as far as Sherlock's and his safety were concerned, on the other hand he really would have preferred to know where he was – if not given a name of the place than at least figures of longitude and latitude. That much he had always known, even in Afghanistan. After all, not knowing where you were did not help remove the fear that you may have been abducted.

John was furious that he hadn't been told anything about his flatmate's medical record. He had tried to talk to Dr Smith about Sherlock's Diazepam treatment, but he wouldn't tell John anything- "Confidential," was his only explanation. John had tried to figure it out by the drugs Sherlock was administered, but he couldn't find any clue. He wasn't sure about the reasons for the secretiveness; he was a doctor, occasionally even Sherlock's doctor!

Two days ago, however, he had once again got hold of Nurse Sunny, who, after some further compliments and flirting, accidentally confirmed that Sherlock couldn't be treated with Diazepam. The ex-army doctor had tricked her into that mistake. Just as John had thought, it was too risky, since it would instantly trigger addiction in a patient with former drug abuse. Also, the risks for the cardiovascular system were too high. Even for patients without any drug records, Diazepam held a risk of potential addiction. Again, John wondered how they would treat the inevitable depression Sherlock was about to go into.

 


	10. Secretiveness

One day John woke up and was immediately aware of a presence in the room. He kept still and tried to look around without moving. To his great surprise, he saw Mycroft standing at Sherlock's bed, a hand resting close to his sleeping brother's shoulder. It appeared to John as if he wanted to touch Sherlock, but didn't dare do so.

When John shifted slightly in his bed, Mycroft shot around, his face not revealing any traces of emotion. In his fake polite voice he said: "Hello, John. How are you feeling?"

"Dunno. How do you feel after nerve agent poisoning?" John answered with a smirk. He didn't simply want to say fine, because that wasn't true at all, but he didn't feel like elaborating on his health condition to Mycroft either, convinced that he would know about his medical record anyway.

Mycroft's only response to his reply was a raised eyebrow.

"As I have said already, John, I have questions. I assumed you might be well enough by today to be able to answer at least some of them."

"Yeah, I have a couple of them as well, Mycroft."

"If you need _my_ help, I won't go running off," a slightly muffled voice came from the other side of the room. Sherlock had woken up, touchy as ever in the presence of his brother.

Mycroft turned around again to face Sherlock.

"Brother dear. I am very pleased to be able to visit you in this location instead of a cemetery. I hope you are feeling better," he said, his face blank, apart from a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes. However, John was convinced that his words were a genuine reflection of his feelings.

Sherlock responded with the same fake smile.

"I heard you had a hand in my rescue. I thought you'd show up a little earlier that day, though, which would have saved John from the trauma he had to go through."

"No, you didn't, your brain had been put out of action –it didn't work, ergo, you didn't think! Besides,… can't you just say _thank you_?!" the older Holmes scolded, all traces of a smile, whether true or false, having vanished from his face.

"Oh, I have already, Mycroft, to someone who deserves it."

"Sherlock! Stop this NOW! You are being unfair! I told you that you wouldn't have survived without his help!" John pointed in Mycroft's direction, glaring daggers at Sherlock. "You and your sentiment-is-a-chemical-defect-behaviour! Absolute children, the pair of you!"

Even the lightest banter between Mycroft and Sherlock turned into a skirmish, which blew John's top. Mycroft would never just admit that he did care, and Sherlock would never acknowledge his caring. And yet, John himself had seen otherwise. Once again he wondered if there was a deeper reason to it than just a childish feud, but Sherlock would never talk about these things, let alone Mycroft.

Both, Mycroft and Sherlock were staring at John in annoyed amazement.

"Mycroft, let's get to the questions…," John went on, calmer now, trying to defuse the situation.

"Yes, John. And to let my brother rest a little more, I will start questioning you."

There was a muffled grumble coming from Sherlock's direction, but, he didn't say anything.

"You have already given a brief report that day, however, it was somewhat fragmented. I assume that was due to your agitation concerning my brother. So, please try to recall the events once more and tell me every detail."

With a sigh John started talking and told the most powerful person he had ever known (apart from probably the elderly woman who was watching him from the picture on the wall, although they hadn't met personally) everything he remembered: Sherlock's experiments on the kitchen table when he left for Tesco's, the guy that John had bumped into on his way home, Sherlock's odd behaviour, the petri-dish with the death's head and his assumptions about the courier. John was convinced that Mycroft would use his power to find the errand boy and, if there was anybody else involved, those, too.

Mycroft didn't comment on anything John said, his face remaining deadpan. The doctor's report was accompanied by Sherlock's annoyed grumbling, although he didn't intervene until the point when John started talking about the errand boy. He interrupted his flatmate and, as fast as he was capable, filled them in on his observations on the courier.

"He pretended to be a courier from St. Barts, which, admittedly, he managed quite well – well, that's not too difficult for even the worst of actors. He delivered the petri-dishes with the mould cultures that I had expected. I do remember him looking at me for one second too long, which should have raised my suspicions! Well, it did, …, " Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then frowned, "but from then on I can only recall opening one petri-dish after the other for examination until, when putting it away, I saw the little picture in one of them. I cannot remember anything after that until waking up here a couple of days ago. How ... unpleasant! ... And there are gaps in my memories of even the past few days." Sherlock added between gritted teeth.

"Aftermath of the poisoning," John mumbled to himself.

"Thanks, John, I _know_ that!"

John looked at Sherlock. "Well, I thought you might have forgotten, as you've just mentioned being forgetful about some things," he teased. He hadn't at all intended to offend Sherlock, although he should have known better. His flatmate simply didn't like being told obvious facts himself, but didn't mind doing it to others in a much more irritating manner.

"Don't think, John! Leave that to those who can do better!"

John pursed his lips in expectation of an apology or at least of something that could count as such, since Sherlock never really apologized, but the Consulting Detective only glared at his flatmate.

"Sherlock, that, actually, was…a bit not good!" John stated.

"A bit not good – a bit not good!" Sherlock aped his flatmate. "I don't _care_ about _a bit not good_!"

John was dumbfounded. If he hadn't been confined to his bed due to the dizziness that befell him on a regular basis, he would have turned on his heels and left the room instantly. That bloody git! Hadn't he just saved Sherlock's life twice? Was this the gratitude Sherlock had talked about a couple of days ago? And hadn't he just said that he thought John had deserved it? Insults, that was how he showed gratitude! Wasn't it possible to have a normal conversation with him?

_Calm down!_ John told himself. _It's just nerves._

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped with a warning undertone. "We do want to find out who attacked you, don't we? So, _behave_!"

Sherlock turned his head from Mycroft and John, closing his eyes in annoyance.

"Who was involved in the breeding of the cultures?" Mycroft enquired, forcing himself to speak in a calm voice.

"Mycroft, if you want to find out, just go to Barts and ask! You know where I send my experiments," Sherlock replied briskly without turning his head back, clearly signalling that he wasn't willing to talk to his brother anymore.

The tension in the room was almost tangible. Didn't they all simply want to find out who the culprit was? John wondered if it was his vulnerability that made Sherlock exceptionally irritable. John himself wasn't completely comfortable in Mycroft's care and he could imagine that Sherlock, as much as he despised the display of any weakness, probably tried to hide his true condition and emotions from his brother. However, John and Mycroft were the closest people to Sherlock, and he should have learned by now that he could trust them.

"Sherlock, he wants to HELP!" John reminded him angrily. Not only had he been scared out of his wits seeing his flatmate almost die, but John could easily have fallen victim to the Tabun as well, so he was interested in throwing light on the whole case, too. "Now, _be cooperative_!"

"Thanks, John, your support is very welcome. You see, brother dear, at least one part of the strange couple you make understands my goodwill," Mycroft added, the first bit almost obsequiously, the second rather coldly.

"Mycroft! We're not a couple! Damn it!" John was furious. Talking with both the Holmes brothers definitely required more patience that he could muster at the moment.

Ignoring Mycroft, John addressed Sherlock, "If you had sent the petri-dishes to Barts, wouldn't it have been Molly who had taken care of your experiments?!" John suddenly felt a pang of worry; he hadn't even wasted a single thought on Molly's welfare so far.

"Ms Hooper hasn't come to any harm, I can reassure you," Mycroft interrupted John's thought. "So, either she had been involved herself, which I assume is highly unlikely due to … well, herself, …or manipulation of the petri-dishes was carried out later." The older of the Holmes scrutinized his younger brother. "Sherlock, have you upset any of London's criminals lately?"

Sherlock shifted in his bed, facing Mycroft he stated bitingly, "As if you wouldn't know! That is my _profession_ , brother dear!"

John sat up in his bed, shaking his head and throwing a pleading glance at the Queen. He couldn't understand why Sherlock and Mycroft had a row about anything and everything. "Boys, this is leading nowhere! If you…" John's voice trailed off when he noticed Sherlock screwing up his face, suddenly writhing in agony.

John was terrified. He jumped from his bed as fast as his dizziness allowed him and crossed the room to Sherlock's bed in a few large strides. In his agitation, he forgot about his own IV, causing the drip stand to almost tumble over, which in turn was only prevented by Mycroft's fast reaction in catching it.

"God, Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock's heart monitor set off a cascade of irregular and fast beeps, clear signs of his pain. Sherlock had curled up on his side, facing John and Mycroft, his eyes closed, and protectively covering his head with his arms. He was alternately moaning and holding his breath.

The door flung open and Dr Smith with Nurse Sunny hurried into the room, pushing John aside quite forcefully.

John noticed the brief glance Dr Smith exchanged with Mycroft. Since the latter stood behind John's back, he couldn't see Mycroft's reaction. With the hint of a nod Dr Smith slid his hand into his right pocket and took a syringe from it, which he emptied into one of the IV bags. John watched the scene, completely confused. He was, on the one hand, relieved when only a short time later Sherlock seemed to relax, his heartbeat becoming more regular and slowing down, his tensed body finally slumping. On the other hand he was alarmed by the little exchange of glances and nods.

"What's that?!" John requested. "What did you give him?" Judging from his medical experience there were a couple of substances that could have this effect, however, since the reason for Sherlock's fit wasn't clear, John was speechless that he was being administered any medicine without any further examination or testing! Besides, Sherlock's treatment was a delicate matter anyway, many of the substances dangerous for a body that had been used to drugs once; and a substance with an effect he had just observed, had to be quite strong, most likely somehow neurotoxic.

"John, you have to trust us. I assure you we know best how to take care of Sherlock, _don't we_?" The last two words were uttered with a creepy smile on Mycroft's face, which made John shudder.

A couple of minutes ago, John hadn't had the slightest doubts about Mycroft's goodwill, but his conviction had been shaken a little.

"You don't give him Diazepam, that much I know, which is, on the one hand, terrible and dangerous for his state of mind, but which is, on the other hand, fine for his body, taking into account that he has a history of drug abuse, but _what the fuck is that_?" John pointed to the syringe still in the doctor's hand.

"Now, now, John! Such nasty words…"

"You won't tell me anything, so I've got no choice but to tell you how I feel in no uncertain terms! _Now tell me_!"

"As I said, you have to trust us. We are only acting in his best interests."

"Well, perhaps you can tell me then why I sometimes doubt that."

John was completely confused. From what he had seen the past days he was convinced that Mycroft spoke the truth and was only acting in Sherlock's best interests, and yet he couldn't find an explanation for why he hadn't been given any information as to Sherlock's treatment.

"Dr Smith, I'd like a word with you outside," Mycroft ordered. "I will let you rest now. Good-bye, John." With a last glance his brother's bed, he left the room, followed by the medical team.

Sherlock still lay on his side, seemingly sound asleep, no traces of any suffering. And yet, John knew that his sleep had been induced by a drug that was apparently a secret that he couldn't be trusted with. Why else would Mycroft and this doctor of his refuse to tell him anything about it?


	11. A feeling of incarceration

John had been left standing in the room, somehow lost and very confused. He climbed back onto his bed, a deep frown on his face. What the hell was going on here?! John tried to figure out every detail of the wholly suspicious incident that had just taken place, but was soon overwhelmed by a fitful sleep.

After a while he woke with a start. Slightly disoriented he looked around. There were just the two of them, Sherlock still asleep, the monotony of the beeps accompanying his every breath. The atmosphere would have been quite peaceful had there not been this nagging feeling that something important had been hidden from John – apart from the contents of the ominous syringe!

Suddenly, he recalled the thought that had woken him. When they had talked about who had been involved in the breeding of the petri-dishes, Mycroft had already known that Molly Hooper was ok. And he could only have known if he had already found out who had done the laboratory work. After all, he wouldn't just have dropped in incidentally at the morgue and asked her how she was. Why hadn't Mycroft told them? And why hadn't Sherlock noticed? Or had he, but simply hadn't said anything? Since modesty wasn't really Sherlock's forte, John considered this pretty unlikely.

The doctor hoped that his roommate would wake up soon and feel better to an extent that his deductive skills would work again – or that he would reveal anything he knew that John didn't to help clarify things a bit.

When it was time for the meal, a different nurse entered the room and brought an eat-off tray for John. On John's enquiry as to what had happened to Nurse Sunny, she simply stated that she had been assigned to other duties. John wasn't really surprised – no more so than he was at the fact that Dr Smith had not shown up again either. He had been replaced by a Dr Miller, a name as common or garden as Smith, John noticed.

John felt an urgent desire to leave the clinic. He knew, however, that he, and particularly Sherlock, hadn't recovered to the extent that it would be safe to be released. As strange as things were in this mysterious place, John's subconscious told him that they wouldn't be harmed. His conscious, however, said something different. On the one hand the ex-army man sensed that Mycroft _had_ the best intentions concerning his brother, on the other hand he was being driven up the wall by the secretiveness about anything and everything.

In his desire to find out where they were, John had even tried to wander off one day to explore the building, but he hadn't got further than down the rather small hallway from their room. There weren't any other doors there apart from the main door, which was locked. John didn't know whether this was for their safety or to prevent them from going anywhere else; most likely both.

The hallway itself had a high ceiling and the same large window with the same featureless view as from their room. The light in the corridor was dazzling, so that John had to cover his eyes to protect them from it. When he managed to glimpse at the corners of the ceiling, he found what he had expected: CCTV. He wondered if there were any cameras in their room, too. Although he hadn't seen any as obvious as the one in the hallway, that didn't mean there weren't any. Maybe that was the reason why he felt a tiny little bit uncomfortable under the Queen's look…

For the time being, it seemed as if all of his attempts to find out anything useful had come to a dead end. The more time they spent in this clinic, the more confused and uneasy John felt. His feeling of safety was slowly replaced by a feeling of incarceration, despite the cosiness of their room. One could only become paranoid under such circumstances! All John's training in how to deal with being a hostage wasn't helping him in this situation as this was a different kind of war without the familiar rushes of adrenaline that preceded the actions he would take. However, there were no actions at all for him to take in this hospital; he wasn't even sure who the enemy was.

Sherlock slept for hours on end, sometimes so quietly and calmly that only the heart monitor gave proof that he was still alive. When he finally woke up, he looked much better than he had before.

From his bed the doctor gave him a scrutinizing glance.

"John, what's wrong? I am aware that I don't quite resemble my best self yet, but there's no need to stare at me."

"I'm not staring, I'm a doctor and I want to find out how you are doing; plus, I am your friend and as such I am the tiniest bit worried about you as well."

"You could just ask," Sherlock suggested.

"And you would just answer _fine_ , which wouldn't help." John shot back.

"I _am_ fine," the Consulting Detective replied.

To his own surprise, John actually believed him. Sherlock hadn't simply _said_ he was fine – he actually _looked_ fine–at least as much as was possible in view of what had happened.

The dark-haired man had recovered surprisingly fast and John wondered if that was due to the ominous drug. Soon permanent monitoring of Sherlock's vital signs as well as both their IVs could be abandoned, giving them much more freedom to move, if only about their own room.

Since without the IVs they had to take their daily doses of drugs orally, John had tried to find out about Sherlock's medication once more, but apart from some pills that looked pretty much like Paracetamol, he couldn't find anything. He himself had insisted on keeping his intake of Diazepam to the minimum dosage possible while being sufficient to prevent him from drifting into a depression. He preferred being a bit irritable but capable of thinking to being comfortable but with a brain like cotton wool.

What confused John, though, was that not only did his roommate take his pills without complaint or questioning, but he didn't show the faintest interest in clarifying what had been and still was going on either. Any time John tried to speak about it, Sherlock simply replied with something like "Too tired,", "We're safe here, so why worry now,", "Don't bother yourself with it, let others do the thinking," and some other more or less annoying statements that were so Sherlock-like, particularly in relation to the degree of irritation they could cause. It was, on the other hand, so unlike Sherlock to be so indifferent that John was really alarmed by it. Either his friend knew more than he would admit, or he really wasn't interested in solving this very personal case, which would be even worse, because the signs his roommate showed clearly resembled an upcoming depression. Usually Sherlock would be the one to tear down the walls to escape any room that he hadn't chosen to stay in himself, particularly if it was related to hospitals, but he seemed to be content. Although he was really getting better day by day, he didn't even gripe once about being bored. As much as John usually dreaded that situation coming up in Baker Street, the Consulting Detective getting silly ideas that were neither good for their flat nor for its inhabitants, he missed it now, because then he would know that Sherlock was alright.

Often Sherlock would just lay there on his bed, his hands folded on his chest, and say nothing at all. He seemed to have retreated to his mind palace, although he wouldn't usually be that calm in such circumstances, at least normally moving his hands a tiny little bit when arranging the information he was accessing. If only he talked, John could find out what was wrong with him. Dr Miller didn't seem to be worried at all; he insisted that Mr Holmes, the younger, was fine, and all his questioning only earned John annoyed glances from his flatmate.

Finally, John forced himself to give up asking, which was really unnerving, but he simply had to wait for a better opportunity to find out more.


	12. Overreacting

One day the door to Sherlock and John's hospital room opened and Mycroft, dressed in a dark flawless three-piece suit, his ever present umbrella hanging from his bent left arm, entered. The two patients were sitting at the table, John reading a novel and Sherlock typing away on his laptop that, among other personal items, had mysteriously appeared in their room one day. They hadn't had any visitors, but apparently Mycroft took care to ensure that they were provided with anything they needed and wanted – apart from information and the freedom to leave the room.

"Good afternoon. John. Sherlock," Mycroft greeted them with a nod.

The doctor and his flatmate both looked up to Mycroft in expectation, however, without saying anything.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, obviously the slightest bit surprised by the lack of reaction. Apparently, he had been prepared for yet another fight.

"You can be released tomorrow and go back to that flat of yours," he stated.

John nodded, "Good." Inwardly, he was extremely relieved. Probably when they were back at home, things would become more normal again and Sherlock would perhaps even regain interest in solving this particular case. At least he hoped so.

Sherlock gave his brother a long glance, but didn't say anything. Then suddenly he shut the lid of his laptop with a determined push and asked, "How?"

John shot up from his armchair, suddenly alarmed. "How? What do you mean 'how'? How _can_ you be released from a clinic? Walk, be pushed in a wheelchair, how else?"

"John, the question is not how we will be released, but how will my brother ensure that we won't be able find the way back to this place – or worse, to be able to tell somebody about the way that leads here," Sherlock informed his flatmate. "Am I not right?" he addressed Mycroft, screwing up his face in what was supposed to be a smirk. So, Sherlock knew a lot more than he had revealed.

"Indeed, Sherlock," the older Holmes replied with a nod and a creepy smile on his face.

John was simply unable to speak. Apparently, those two men were hiding far more from him than he had realised. John suddenly realized that Sherlock had very likely experienced a stay in a clinic like the one they were in earlier in his life. He didn't know all the details about his flatmate's history of drug abuse, but it was likely that the withdrawal that Sherlock had once mentioned would have taken place in an institution like this. Had he probably misinterpreted the signs of an imminent depression on Sherlock? Was the reason why he was so indifferent and calm maybe that even the younger Holmes had once been forced to understand that there was no escape and no use of being all stubborn in his brother's custody? If that was the case, it would only emphasize the scary power Mycroft had and apparently used on even his brother.

For John's taste, this was simply too much.

"No. NO! I don't want to know anything – OK? Nothing about your funny secrets! Just get me out of here and take me HOME!" he yelled, shaking his head repeatedly.

Although John was aware that there was actually no use in leaving the room as there was no place to go except the small hallway, he felt a pressing urge to slam a door. Since he didn't want to hide in the bathroom, he walked out of the room into the hall and pulled heavily at the door handle, finally producing the expected slam. The doctor was fuming and paced the corridor up and down.

After some time, the door opened again and Mycroft joined John in the hall. The former looked at the furious man intently, leaning at the sill of the large window, his arms folded. All of a sudden, John stopped pacing, turned around on his heels, now facing Mycroft.

"What?" he asked briskly, glaring daggers at the aristocratic appearance opposite him.

"John, you have to understand that we have to take precautions."

"I do understand about the precautions, I just don't get why you keep _hiding_ things from me! Just _talk_ to me and everything will be fine!"

"That is exactly the problem, John. If you know things you can tell them to others. You might become a target, too."

"Mycroft, I am a military man, I have been _trained_ to keep secrets, even under the cruellest torture. Do you really think that Sherlock's medical record is worth torturing me for?"

"It is; I'm afraid."

"Why's that? Is he a kind of Frankenstein's monster, or what?" John spat.

He started pacing again, pretending to be thinking, suddenly tipping his index finger to his temple. "Aaah, I see! It has to do with the drug you had administered to him…," John stated, screwing up his eyes.

"John, listen…," Mycroft interrupted, "I will tell you this much, however, I can assure you that if you speak about it once, I myself will take pleasure in torturing you," the personified British Government uttered with such a warning undertone that John believed every single word. There were definitely less dangerous enemies for one to have.

"Right." John was more than willing to take that risk as he couldn't stand being left in the dark anymore.

"You know, John, that time is an important factor in Tabun poisoning- not just, because of the inhibition of the synaptic enzyme, which we could neutralize by the atropine, as you know, but also because of the long-term effects that are more likely to occur the longer the period between exposure and treatment. Sherlock had shown clear signs of imminent brain damage. The poisoning had been extremely severe."

"Brain damage?" John simply couldn't restrain himself from interrupting. "Mycroft, I'm sorry, but as far as I know, there is nothing that can actually prevent brain damage if the dose is high enough. You cannot stop the process once it has started, but Sherlock doesn't show any signs of it!"

"He did, I'm afraid."

"He DID? You mean in the sense of "his brain is damaged, but you can't see it" or "his brain was about to be damaged and we did something to stop it", which leads us back to that damn drug of yours?!"

"You can be as stubborn as my little brother," Mycroft replied almost softly.

John invaded Mycroft's personal space, pointing a finger his chest.

"Are you telling me that the British Government has a drug that prevents brain damage after nerve agent poisoning although the exposure to it was long enough and severe enough?!"

"I'm not telling you anything. You choose to interpret it that way."

John snorted. "What other way is there for me to interpret it? You administer Sherlock a drug that you wouldn't speak about. You say he was about to have the brilliant brain of his damaged, but he is over it. Very likely the drug wasn't given to him once, because it had to have been administered immediately, before damage to the brain would be irreversible, but just once that _I_ saw it. That also being the reason why that doctor and nurse vanished. Something went wrong, Sherlock went into that headache-related fit and I saw you give him that stuff. You swear me, well- threaten me, to secrecy about what you're telling me. Your knowledge about nerve agents, I reckon, is as good as mine, if not better, so what other conclusions am I to draw from all that?" John had talked himself into a rage, clenching his fists, his eyes wide open and the veins standing out on his temples.

"You're overreacting, John. I only wanted to tell you that Sherlock will be fine and that you needn't worry about the depression, he won't have any. He will soon be himself again."

"Oh! No depression either? Although he hasn't had any treatment to prevent it? I'm not even sure if he isn't already showing signs of it right now! The same drug? Magic potion, is it, then?! -Mycroft, I have seen plenty of soldiers who had been poisoned with nerve agents, some of them getting out of it without any long-term harm apart from that bloody depression, which actually drove some into suicide; others left as babbling, slavering cripples, leaving their families being forced to take care of them for the rest of their lives. And you are – _implying_ that you have a secret remedy that could have prevented all that?! Every soldier carries an auto-injector with antidote against nerve agents with him, why don't you simply add that miraculous substance, so everyone would be fine? Or do you have to belong to a certain circle of people to be in the position of receiving it? Mycroft, you really don't expect me to understand that, do you? Now, finally, _talk straight_!"

"I would have to kill you then, which might be a degree of loss to my brother that I don't want to subject him to at the moment," the target of John's verbal eruption replied coldly.

John stepped back, feeling a shudder run down his spine. That had definitely been another threat.

"Then why don't you just pull your neuralyzer from your pocket and use it on me, eh? I'm sure you have one!" The whole situation had become so weird that John really wished Mycroft had a device like the MIB, which could make him forget about everything from when he went to get some milk and replace those memories by others, preferably just nice ones.

Mycroft frowned in confusion. He seemed to doubt John's sanity, which the doctor could hardly reproach him for, taking into account that it was highly unlikely that Mycroft had ever seen the film or even heard of the Men in Black.

"Listen, John. Let me put it this way: If for one second you could forget about being the saviour of all soldiers… If there was a remedy such as you imply, however it had not yet been tested sufficiently to make it accessible for everyone - would you expect a brother not to try everything, instead let his sibling die or suffer for the rest of his life?"

John had talked himself into such a deep fury that he was momentarily struck dumb by what Mycroft had just said. Yes, they were brothers. Once again John caught himself ignoring this tiny fact. If John were in Mycroft's position, wouldn't he have clutched at any straw himself? Well, in fact he didn't have to put himself into the other man's position. He _had_ done it himself, the means different, but the aim being the same. Neither of them wanted to lose Sherlock.

John had to admit to himself that actually it really didn't matter how or why Sherlock had survived, the only thing of importance was that he had – and that he would recover!

"Keep an eye on my brother, John! Good-bye." Miraculously, the door of the hallway opened and Mycroft simply left without speaking further.

That hadn't gone too well, John thought. Why couldn't he just listen?! Mycroft had intended to tell him something and he had spoiled it. Although, had he really? Sherlock's brother hadn't confirmed John's assumptions, but he hadn't denied them as well. In fact, Mycroft hadn't said very much, and yet enough to leave John with a feeling that he had hit the nail on the head. Maybe that had been his way of revealing secrets that he wasn't able to speak about. Although John was again confused, he was also relieved a bit as to what Sherlock's brother had said about his recovery – he would be ok, and John wanted to believe that. Anyway, Mycroft was still a bloody annoying git!

After shaking his head a couple of times as if to shake off the anger and the confusion, straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath, John returned to their room.

"Sooner or later you get used to it," Sherlock said, again typing on his laptop, as indifferent as he had been the past days.

"Says who?" John snapped back. It was obvious that Sherlock hadn't got used to his brother's habits although he had known him his entire life. John scrutinized his flatmate for any further reaction. Had he overheard the rant between himself and the British Government? Did he know after all about the secret remedy?

"Um, Sherlock…, "John wanted to ask him about what he knew, but was interrupted by a shake of the dark-haired head. "You wanted to know how."

Understanding that there was no use in putting any effort into questioning Sherlock, John finally probed, "So, how?"

"Most likely we'll be drugged, nothing too unpleasant."

"Humph," was all John was capable of uttering at the moment. He went to the bathroom, took a long shower in an attempt of washing away the mess in his head and went to bed without having dinner or speaking any further to Sherlock. This was all a kind of war that John wasn't trained at, he was truly and honestly helpless.


	13. Home again

The next thing John remembered was waking up in one of those limousines that he had often journeyed in, courtesy of Mycroft. He was fully dressed in his comfortable cable stitch pullover, jeans, jacket and boots. Next to him was Sherlock, his Belstaff coat draped around him, still slumped in the comfortable back seat of the car. John wiped his face, blinking his eyes a couple of times and trying to get his bearings. Sherlock had been correct about the drugging, however, John would have preferred to be allowed to dress on his own beforehand. He glimpsed at the watch on his wrist, which showed ten past eight in the morning. The doctor wondered when he had been given the narcotic, because he wouldn't usually sleep an estimated thirteen hours without waking.

The window to the front of the car was closed and John couldn't identify the driver. However, that didn't bother him since he was used to it from other trips. He looked out of the window and found that the houses and scenery flying by were familiar to him; they were on the Westway, already close to Baker Street .

Sherlock shifted in his seat and opened his eyes, rolling his head to release the tension that had built up in his muscles.

"Almost there," he remarked slightly sleepily.

"Finally," was John's quite curt reply. He was still angry. However, he was actually really looking forward to being at home again, and he strongly hoped that in their familiar surroundings things would settle a bit and they could go back to something that was close to normal, which included talking about all those things that had happened without hurling abuse at each other or Mycroft.

John remembered that he had been told that Mycroft's team would clean the apartment in their absence. He wondered if they had adhered to Sherlock's cataloguing system – his socks, shirts, pants and whatever was stored in specific arrangements.

Upon entering their home, John almost bumped into Sherlock when the Consulting Detective suddenly stopped in the doorway to their flat, thunderstruck and blocking the way into the living-room. He looked around disbelievingly.

After John had found a way past Sherlock into the flat, he simply joined him in his amazement. Never in the entire time they had shared the flat, had it been so clean and tidied up. Mycroft's men had really done proper work!

As opposed to Sherlock, John liked the rooms the way they were now. For his flatmate, however, this had to be a nightmare. All the seemingly randomly scattered books had either been piled into neat towers or put onto the bookshelves, which showed no traces of dust. The laboratory equipment had disappeared from the kitchen table, which actually looked like one now, clean and with a bowl of fruit on it. The counter and cupboards didn't show any signs that the kitchen had been used once. Normally, there would be unwashed mugs, packages of cereals and other kitchen items having been dropped there casually. All open packages had been replaced by new ones of the same brands, carefully arranged by their sizes. No matter where you looked, everything was tidy and shiny.

"Yoo-hoo! Boys!" they suddenly heard Mrs Hudson's voice coming closer. Upon stepping into the living-room she started nattering excitedly. "Oh, Sherlock, John! I'm so glad you're ok again! Look at the flat – isn't it wonderful? So neat and clean! I tried to get those men of Mycroft to clean my flat as well, but they wouldn't. What a pity! Don't you mess up everything again, will you?" John found that the most astounding fact about Mrs Hudson was that no matter what happened in her house around Sherlock, she never really was surprised or actually speechless about it. How many elderly ladies would react like this after there had been a nerve gas attack in their house?!

Sherlock came to life again, muttering something about a lot of work being destroyed, but kept comparatively calm. Instead, he turned to Mrs Hudson and gave her a hug. "Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I really need a nice cup of tea. Would you mind…?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm still not your housekeeper, so just this once, dear, because you look tired. You too, John. You sit down and rest, I'll be back in a minute." She rushed off into the very tidy kitchen, busying herself with making tea.

"Ah, home again," John sighed, dropping into his favourite armchair by the fireplace.

"Or what's left of it," Sherlock grumbled, positioning himself in the opposite armchair.

Taking the first delightful sips of tea that Mrs Hudson had handed them, John gave questioning Sherlock another try.

"Erm, Sherlock, you sure, everything's ok with you?"

Over the rim of his cup Sherlock glanced briefly at John, then put his cup on the saucer and placed both on the floor. Leaning in to John, now facing him directly, he stated in a very determined voice, "I. Am. Fine. John!"

The doctor pursed his lips, then shook his head. Under the surprised look of Mrs Hudson he got up with a sigh, took his jacket that he had just shrugged off a couple of minutes ago and left for a walk. He needed fresh air. If Sherlock didn't want to talk, so be it. "Off out", he grumbled while stomping down the stairs.

With long strides, John went up Baker Street in the direction of Regent's Park, taking in the bustle of the morning. He was aware of the fact that most likely he was beingfollowed by Mycroft's men, but he didn't care. Having reached the park he sat down on a bench by the lake. The winter sun wasn't really warming, but the take-away coffee in his hand was. John had to think.

Mycroft had made a clear statement as to what John had to expect if he talked about the secret remedy, but did that count for Sherlock, too? John wasn't sure if he didn't know anyway. The doctor was worried about possible side-effects of the substance. Sherlock's brother had admitted that it hadn't yet been tested sufficiently. Although John was sure that Mycroft would have his medical team keep an eye on Sherlock as much as he himself would, he had to tell him about it, so that his flatmate wouldn't be tempted to hide anything from John.

Suddenly John's mobile vibrated and made a "pling" for an incoming text. John pulled the device from his pocket and read.

_Let's talk. SH_

John shook his head. Sherlock could be really annoying! He _had_ wanted to talk, but the Consulting Detective preferred to let the people around him dance like puppets, only willing to talk when he chose to.

John quickly typed a reply and hit the send-button.

_Out for a walk, as you may have noticed! JW_

_Danger. SH_

John snorted. No, Sherlock would have to find something new to make him jump at his request. He waited.

 _I meant what I said. I_ am _still grateful. SH_

Oh, this was getting interesting. Sentiment as a means of manipulation. Well, that wasn't really new but it was new for Sherlock to use it on John.

_You should be. JW_

_Bring some milk. SH_

That was enough. They definitely had to talk. John slid the mobile back into his pocket and stomped home.

Having shrugged off his jacket, unceremoniously throwing it on the back of a chair, John positioned himself in front of Sherlock. The Consulting Detective was squatting in his armchair, knees drawn to his chin, his hands clinging to the Union Jack cushion. He didn't change his position, only looked up to John.

"There you are", he simply said.

"Yes, you saw, but, Sherlock, did you observe?"

"In fact, _I_ always observe, but _you_ don't, although … observe what?"

"That you are just about to piss me off again and if you don't start talking _right now_ , I will _honestly_ take that bloody cushion and suffocate you with my own hands."

That earned John a smile.

"You wouldn't be able to, you know that."

"You want to give it a try?" John felt his anger blow over and a laugh finding its way from his gut.

He felt the ice had been broken for the moment, and finally Sherlock started talking.


	14. An overdue talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and for the kudos! :-)

"I've been thinking," the Consulting Detective stated.

"You mean the last couple of hours?"

"No, John, since I've been awake. I couldn't talk to you, however."

"I noticed that you didn't, but why couldn't you? Why couldn't you at least tell me that you couldn't?" John probed.

"Mycroft. He was eavesdropping. The room was bugged to the hilt."

John had expected something like that, but he hadn't really expected that Sherlock would be bothered by it.

"Ok. You usually don't mind, in fact you told me once that our flat here is bugged, too. So, why are you talking know when you wouldn't in the hospital?"

Sherlock opened his hand to show it to John. There were a couple of tiny black plastic items with tiny antennas attached to them. Bugs.

"Oh! You searched the flat. Sure you found them all?"

Sherlock nodded. Only now did John notice that some parts of the flat weren't as tidy as they had been when he had left for his walk. Some of the books were carelessly drawn from the shelves, the picture with the death's head was hanging lopsidedly, and the light bulb of the living-room lamp was lying on the coffee table. Sherlock had been thorough, however he hadn't been bothered about putting things back where he had taken them from.

"Now explain. Why do you suddenly care about Mycroft listening?" John wanted to know.

"He's involved," the Consulting Detective stated to John's surprise.

"I guess, he's involved in almost everything here in Britain, more or less, but... involved in what exactly?"

"Not sure yet, John. It was really hard to concentrate with all the noise in the hospital room and a snoring roommate. "

"Sherlock!" John warned him.

"The memory gaps, John," Sherlock remarked. "Admittedly, there are indeed gaps in my memories. I remember the courier very well thanks to my photographic memory, I have seen him before, however Icouldn't find any information about him in my mind palace, which doesn't make sense. My brain's fine, no long-term effects, so, why do I know the courier and can't remember?"

"Um, Sherlock, actually, that is probably nothing to worry about, it happens to all of us occasionally", John commented.

"Don't interrupt!"

"Well, if you ask rhetorical questions, then please tell me in advance, so that I don't have to bother my brain with thinking about an answer, ok?"

Sherlock went on, ignoring John's objection.

"That doesn't happen to me, John. My brain doesn't work like yours! Once I have stored a piece of information I can never forget about it anymore, unless I delete it deliberately!" Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth. He stood up and started pacing up and down with long strides, his hands clasped behind his back. "And Molly. Of course, Mycroft knew where I had sent the experiments and he knew that it wasn't her who poisoned the petri-dish."

"Ah, so you did notice that bit, too. I had already been wondering… Well, I guess, Molly's innocence is out of question, isn't it?"

Sherlock gave John an enigmatic glance. "Of course," he said, obviously regarding her involvement in attempted murder too far-fetched.

"You know, women do love poison. Especially for unfulfilled...,"

"John!" Sherlock interrupted his companion. "We're going to visit a family member of mine. Get your jacket!"

Sherlock crossed the room, heading for the door.

"Stop, Sherlock!" The Consulting Detective didn't react, so John yelled, "Halt!"

Sherlock actually stopped and turned around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Military, John?"

John smirked, at least it had worked. "Maybe I have some information that you should know in advance."

Sherlock approached John, an inquiring look on his face. "Tell me."

John dropped into the armchair without turning his gaze from Sherlock, took a deep breath and started telling his flatmate what he had observed in the clinic and what that little rant with his brother had been about.

Sherlock had actually listened without interrupting John. He had sat down slowly in the opposite armchair, leaning his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers under his chin in concentration.

When John had finished, Sherlock remained silent for a while, then looked at his flatmate intently.

"Probably no family visits at the moment," he said thoughtfully.

John waited for Sherlock to say something more, but he remained silent.

"Is that it? Nothing more to say about your brother apparently giving you some illegal and top-secret drugs?"

"No, John, that's fine. He knows what he's doing as far as that is concerned."

"You think so? The drug is top secret, not sufficiently tested, and you aren't the slightest bit worried! Has it crossed your mind that there might be side-effects that they don't know about so far and that you might serve as your brother's guinea pig?"

"Calm down, John. Actually, I prefer being his guinea pig to being dead. Not really an option I'd go for at the moment. I'm not worried about the drug. That is fine. Let's put it this way: If he really considered the drug questionable in its safety, if there were any side-effects that he knew about that could raise suspicions in others – doctors mainly – which, in turn, could cause trouble explaining, he simply wouldn't have used it on me."

"Oh, yeah – actually - no, that's not really a logic that I can follow. Something like "He's my brother, he cares too much about me to put me in any real danger", that's something reasonable for me, but that has to do with sentiment, so I assume that's not a thought that might cross your mind," John replied confused.

"I don't expect you to comprehend, just accept it."

"Yup, and you should accept that your brother cares about you!" John snapped.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, but didn't say anything.

"So, you really aren't worried about the drug?" John probed, just to make sure, because _he_ was.

"Nope."

"What _are_ you worried about then?"

"My memory gaps. Deliberate deletion of memories is a technique that you learn the same way as you learn to store memories. A friend of Mycroft's taught me that technique when I was little. Showing someone how to do it in that particular way also means you have temporary access to the learner's mind. You have imaginary keys to the doors of your memory building, something like codes. The one who teaches you has to know at least some of the codes and since the keys cannot be replaced by others, has life-long access to some of the rooms, or memories, respectively, only the very basics, though. In other words, the early memories that have been stored in that way. For some reason or another Mycroft has deleted my memories of a former meeting with the errand boy."


	15. Paying Molly a visit

John let out a puff of air, "Whew, I guess I don't get it anymore. You are accusing your brother of having someone access your memories and delete them on his behalf, whereas, the obvious fact that he administered illegal drugs on you is fine with you?! I'm sorry, Sherlock, that's a bit too much, I'm sorry, but that really sounds... unlikely to me."

"Well, John, that's the crucial thing I have already pointed out to you a couple of times: When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth."

"Ah, yes, I remember…" John replied weakly. "However, that would be really, really mad! - Assuming, you were right, when would he have done it?"

"Not recently. As I said, I knew the errand boy, but I didn't recognize him when he did his delivery, therefore, it has to have been done before! – Molly, we have to talk to Molly."

They grabbed their jacket and coat, hurried down the stairs and hailed a taxi outside 221B that took them to St. Bartholomew's through the heavy late morning traffic, both Sherlock and John lost in thought.

Molly was really happy to see them looking well. She started chatting about how worried she had been and how nasty it was that apparently the errand boy had accidentally switched Sherlock's petri-dishes with the ones from the children's gastroenterology lab. Oh, and she wouldn't want to imagine what it was like to have a Norovirus infection. Sherlock and John exchanged glances, trying to avoid laughing out loud.

Norovirus. That was what Mycroft had told her!? At least he could have chosen something less disgusting! Although, it had prevented anybody from wanting to visit them.

Molly danced around Sherlock excitedly, pointing out repeatedly that she was sorry for what had happened and that next time she would deliver any results of Sherlock's experiments personally, just to make sure they wouldn't be switched again.

John watched the scene in front of him with a smile on his face. To anyone else, Molly's crush on the Consulting Detective was so clearly visible. Only the object of her desire pretended not to notice, however, he knew exactly how to use her feelings for his own purposes, which he occasionally did.

Sherlock carefully probed into what else Molly knew. She explained that she had given the petri-dishes to the errand boy who did deliveries for them on a regular basis. She had been surprised, however, when Mycroft had paid her a visit at which he had told her about Sherlock and John's infection with the Norovirus and questioned her about how that mistake could have happened. The day after, when Molly had wanted to read the errand boy the Riot Act, he had already quit his job.

By flattering her, Sherlock forced the pathologist to do some phone calls to find out where the young man lived. He pretended to be wanting to personally "thank" him for weeks of diarrhoea and talk to him about his duties as a reliable courier.

After having got the address, Sherlock left instantly, leaving John to thank Molly and say good-bye. He caught up on his companion in the street, where he had already flagged downa taxi.

"Care to share your thoughts?" John asked cautiously, making himself comfortable in the backseat of the taxi.

"Hmm…. Not yet," the detective replied distractedly.

John shook his head in mild annoyance.

After some search for the apartment they were looking for they were invited in by the young man that had been the errand boy for Barts. Peter, as was his name, told them that he had changed shifts with some other errand boy who had phoned him to ask for that favour. Since he had had better plans for that day, he had agreed and stayed in.

Upon questioning him about the other errand boy, Peter said he didn't know him very well, no face, just a name, which wasn't unusual since there were many errand boys on odd jobs at Barts. He explained that the reason why he had given up his job was that he had a new one, better-paid, at a private firm in London.

Obviously the few questions they had asked were sufficient for Sherlock, because he suddenly stood up, thanked the young man and left the flat, John following him once again in a hurry.

"Sherlock, could you please fill me in? Were those all the questions you had?"

"It wasn't important what he said, it was important what he didn't say! He lied about the changing of the shifts. He was bought off. Didn't you see the new and very expensive mobile phone on his desk, the packaging still in the bin. How much money do you earn as an errand boy, eh? Going by the furnishing of his one-room apartment - scarcely any furniture, the meals that he had – mainly fast food of the cheapest kind, his long-overdue haircut, do you think he would be able to save that much money? There was still some money left in the envelope sitting under the cushion of his bed. He lied about the job, he doesn't have one. There was a newspaper with the odd job ads open, some circled. So far, so obvious. Assuming that he wasn't simply feeling like quitting his job, what – or who - made him? Did you see circles on the floor? Like dried droplets – or… like dents of the tip of an umbrella."

"Mycroft!" John exclaimed in amazement. "Do you think _he_ paid him off?"

"No, no, no! That's not the way he does it. He wouldn't pay; he would scare the life out of him… or let him disappear mysteriously!"

"Well, he hasn't disappeared, so he's scared, do you think?"

"He is! Didn't you notice? He rubbed his hands dry on his jeans – a couple of times, his gaze was unsteady, at least very nervous, if not frightened."

"Sherlock, what I don't understand is why would Mycroft do this? I mean, he wouldn't kill you, would he? He actually helped to rescue you. That doesn't make any sense!"

"No, it doesn't, does it?" Sherlock was apparently as much at a loss as John.


	16. Freiburg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether I have mentioned it before, but I'm not a native speaker of English, so be kind. The story has been proof-read though to make sure it's not full of mistakes.

After they had returned to Baker Street, John was exhausted. He even noticed that Sherlock had become very pale, although he wouldn't admit that he needed to rest a little, too.

The Consulting Detective threw himself on the couch, sighing deeply and rubbing his temples.

John watched his actions with a frown, but didn't dare to ask. He wouldn't get an answer anyway. He put the kettle on and waited for the water to boil. Suddenly Sherlock sat up on the sofa.

"Why do you think they used Tabun of all poisons? There are many other neurotoxic substances that kill faster, without any chance of recovery."

"Dunno. Haven't thought about it."

"Yes, I thought so. However, there must be a reason for it. John, what do you know about it? Apart from the chemical details which I know very well myself."

John mused. "Hmm, it's a chemical weapon, classified as a weapon of mass destruction, accidentally developed while experimenting for insecticides in World War II in Germany, though never used in that war. It's said to have been used by the US to kill unwanted people secretly. It was, however, used in the Iran-Iraq war and probably also in Afghanistan. That's mainly it, I guess."

Sherlock got up from the sofa and started pacing the room restlessly.

"The key must be in the Tabun," he mumbled to himself.

Sherlock grabbed the chair by the desk, dropped on it heavily and started typing away on his laptop. John watched him. He was still slightly alarmed by his flatmate's complexion.

After some time Sherlock shook his head in desperation.

"I can't find very much on Tabun, however, there should be more information in the German Military Archive in Freiburg."

"Freiburg? Germany? Actually, I have a friend there, Christoph Lintele, former German comrade. He started working in the archive after he took a bullet in Afghanistan."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but fiercely typed on his laptop.

"I could call him," John suggested.

"No, you meet him. Your flight's going tonight, 7pm from Heathrow, BA to Basel. You'll pick up a car in Basel and it's just 45 miles from there to Freiburg. You can be back by tomorrow night. However, you have to rush a bit now!"

"Thanks Sherlock! Actually, I prefer being asked! What about you? Aren't you coming?"

"No, I have to THINK! I have to access my mind palace again and try to find any information that could help."

"Oh, I see. And you can't do it on the plane, can you?" John tried, causing Sherlock to give him a long, unfriendly glance. "No, you can't, I see. Well, so I have to do the legwork again, right?"

"Seven sharp, John."

There were times when John felt something like hate for his flatmate.

In fact, John wasn't sure if flying in an airplane was the appropriate rest that he should have for his recovery, but he resigned himself to going, because he wanted to find out about the nerve agent as much as Sherlock did.

Sherlock had been kind enough to book him first class, so the flight had been an unexpected pleasure. Having landed in Basel and having picked up the car that Sherlock had reserved, John drove through the darkness. Had his flatmate ever wasted a thought on the effort it took to drive on the wrong side of the road, in the wrong side of a car at night, whilebeing tired to the bones? After all, they had only been released from the clinic this morning!

John had contacted his friend on his way to the airport to make sure he would have time for him. In fact, his former comrade had invited him to stay over, but John had preferred a hotel. Having arrived in Freiburg he only managed to rid himself of his shoes before he fell into the very comfortable bed and into a deep, exhausted sleep.

When he woke up the next morning he had difficulties figuring out where he was and what he was doing there. He padded into the bathroom, looked into the mirror and at himself disbelievingly. He was a mess. Nothing, however, that couldn't be straightened with a thorough shower and a good breakfast.

When it was time to meet his friend, John felt much better. He had to restrain himself, though, from sending Sherlock a text asking how he was this morning, because he knew that he wouldn't get any other reply but _fine_ , if at all. So he might as well drop the idea.

Apart from the circumstances, John was really pleased to meet his German friend Christoph again after such a long time. He had been able to take a day off at short notice, and so they wandered about the beautiful city of Freiburg, enjoying the special geographic location of it in so far as the usually chilly temperature at that time of the winter wasn't chilly in Freiburg at all. In fact, it felt like spring there, with the sun shining from a clear blue sky. A couple of times John stumbled over the little gutters that crossed the entire city and his friend teased him that he would have to marry a girl from Freiburg if he should fall into one. As far as John could see, that wasn't really a threat, however, he didn't want to get wet or sprain an ankle, so he paid attention, having to jump occasionally.

After some chatter, John got to the point. He told his former comrade that he needed detailed information on Tabun, but he didn't tell him the details why that was the case. So together they went to the archive and looked for any information they could find.

John was soon disappointed since there wasn't really anything useful to be found – many of the files were top secret.

After hours of research John gave in, shrugging and wiping his face in disappointment.

"John, what exactly are you looking for, eh? You know, I owe you something, so probably, if you tell me what you're really looking for, I could possibly help you," Christoph said.

The ex-army doctor looked at his comrade intently. In fact, yes, he owed John his life. Back in Afghanistan the German soldier had been found by a British patrol after a shooting with the terrorists and had been brought to John who had struggled, yet managed to prevent Christoph from bleeding out.

John sighed, "Let's have coffee, it's a long story."

When John told his story, carefully leaving out the most delicate details, his companion nearly dropped his coffee mug in sheer amazement. After John's report, he simply stated: "Well, you're not leading the most boring life, especially compared with working in an archive."

"Less risky, though." John remarked in response.

He agreed to help John to get access to the more secret documents. However, he had to prepare that. So they decided to have a late dinner together and arrange anything further then.

When they met in the lobby of John's hotel, the German carried a black leather briefcase, which he handed to John. "Sorry, mate, I couldn't get you in there, but I made some copies. You know, if anyone ever finds out about this, my life will be made pretty miserable, if I have a life leftat all. So, be careful, will you?"

John shuddered. He hadn't wanted to put Christoph into danger. He wasn't sure if there was any imminent danger, but he could tell that it hadn't been that easy to get the information he was holding in his hands now.

Since neither man wasreally hungry anymore, they parted with a tight hug, patting each other's shoulders.

John retreated to his hotel room, deeply curious about the files he had been given. As he sensed that the material held explosive information he wanted to have backup-copies in case anything happened to the files. So he took one sheet of paper after the other and took a photo of it with his mobile phone.

Still worried about his friend Christoph, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning he drove back to Basel, returned the car and waited for the 12.25 plane back to London. In the pre-boarding area he sent a text to Sherlock with details of when he would arrive back Baker Street.

_Fine. SH_

John knew exactly that Sherlock was generally capable of using hundreds of thousands of different words, however, he apparently had to teach him some synonyms for _fine_ one day!

After a quiet and pleasant flight, he got into a cab outside the airport.

He was watching the scenery flying by when his mobile rang – it was Sherlock.

"Dohn?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm already in the taxi, I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Erm, Dohn, could dou try a bit faster?"

"Sherlock, what is it? Why are you speaking in such a funny way?"

"Dosebleed."

"What?"

"My dose is bleeding!"

"Ah, nosebleed! Sherlock, get yourself some ice from the fridge, put it in a bag, wrap that bag in a towel and put it in your neck. Bend forwards so that the blood can run from your nose. Most likely it will have stopped by the time I'll be there, nothing to worry about."

"A lot of blood."

"Yes, but it always seems to be more than it actually is. Don't worry. Get the ice and you'll be fine."

John hung up. Sherlock could be a child, after all. Bruises, stab wounds, nerve agent poisoning, all these couldn't disconcert the Consulting Detective, however, a simple nosebleed set him off the edge.

Although…. John felt a sudden pang of worry. There _were_ occasions when nose bleeding actually was dangerous.

"Go as fast as you can!" he ordered the cabbie.

"Doing anyway," that one replied.

"No, I mean, really fast. Emergency!" John shouted back.

The cabbie sped up as much as the heavytraffic allowed. John dialled Sherlock's number and waited for the Detective to pick up his phone – which he didn't. That wasn't good. John wondered if he should dial Mycroft's emergency number once again, but decided otherwise. If that was just a simple nosebleed, he would make a complete fool of himself. He had to check on his flatmate first.

After having paid the taxi fee, John fumbled to get the key into the front door. He ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time and rushed into the living room. Sherlock wasn't there. Instead there was a lot of blood. A few droplets in front of the kitchen, more on the way to the sofa, a whole puddle in front of the sofa and a trail of blood leading to the bathroom.

That was far too much blood for just a harmless nosebleed!


	17. Nosebleed

The door to the bathroom was standing slightly ajar and John opened it a little further to be able to get a glimpse into the room. There was Sherlock slouched in front of the bath tub, his arms loosely hanging over the rim, his right cheek leaning on it, the eyes closed. Everything seemed to be covered in blood, in fact, the bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse!

"Sherlock! Bloody hell!" John crouched down next to his flatmate, who slowly opened his eyes, apparently having difficulty focussing on John.

"Ice didn't help…," he slurred.

"Yeah, I can see that." In the bath tub there was a bag filled with water, which would once have been ice cubes, some blood-soaked towels and some red balls, which had very likely been ineffective attempts at dressings for Sherlock's nose.

"Sherlock, I have to get you to a hospital immediately. This is not just any nosebleed, most likely it's an arterial nosebleed and you are in danger of bleeding out! I'm calling Mycroft."

"No… hospital … please!" Sherlock begged, closing his eyes.

"No, no, no, Sherlock, stay with me, ok? You have to stay awake!"

The Consulting Detective very slowly opened his eyes again. "Please…," he whispered.

John's heart sank. Sherlock had lost a lot of blood and he needed a blood transfusion immediately. The doctor was at a loss. He really didn't want to call Sherlock's brother as they didn't know in how far he was involved in the Tabun-incident. However, John knew that his flatmate's blood loss had already reached a critical stage and Mycroft's men would always be faster and better equipped than any other medical team could be. He didn't have a choice, and no matter in how far Mycroft was involved, John was still convinced of his best intentions when it came to his brother's life. The doctor quickly pulled out his mobile and dialled Mycroft's emergency number for the second time in a few weeks.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft sounded worried.

"Arterial nosebleed! He's going into hypovolemic shock! I need some units of stored blood of Sherlock's group, and an ENT-specialist, right here, right now!"

John hadn't waited for Mycroft to say anything but had hung up. From the last time he knew that it would only take minutes until his team and, most likely also himself in person, would arrive.

"Sherlock! Talk to me, will you? Tell me something, no matter what, ok?

"…tired…"

"I know, mate, but you must not sleep, do you hear me? Stay with me!"

"…so cold…"

"Sherlock, don't sleep! Listen, if you go to sleep you will never wake up again! Did you get that? You've just told me that dying wasn't an option for you, so stick to that!"

The only thing John could do was to try to keep Sherlock awake and somehow try to slow down the bleeding. In fact, the very uncomfortable looking position that Sherlock was sitting in was relatively safe. His head was slightly bent forward, the blood dripping into the tub. At least he wasn't in danger of aspiring the blood or choking on it. However, John wasn't sure how long Sherlock would be able to remain in that position, since he already showed clear signs of hypovolemic shock. He was incredibly pale, the skin covered in cold sweat, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. And there was so much blood everywhere, almost impossible to estimate the amount of it. However, as Sherlock was about to lose consciousness, it was very likely that it was about two litres or more and that his flatmate was closer to death than to life if he couldn't stop the bleeding.

The ex-army doctor felt for the carotid pulse and found it as he had expected – weak and fast. He knew that all the other common ways to treat nosebleed wouldn't have any effect with artery bleeding, Sherlock had tried some himself in vain. However, John had to try to at least slow it down.

"Sherlock, I have to run to my room quickly. Stay put!"

"Hm."

John had to look for his nasal spray. It could at least help the blood vessels to contract a little. He ran to his room and frantically searched his drawers for the wanted item. Thanks to his occasional sinus problems he tended to keep a bottle of it in his room. Upon returning to the bathroom he found that Sherlock had slumped and slid from the rim of the bath tub, now lying on his back, one arm at his side, the other one across his abdomen.

"Fuck! Sherlock! You promised not to do this again, remember?!"

The doctor tried to get his arms under his flatmate's armpits to bring him into an upright position. Artery nosebleed was a nasty thing because the usual shock position would make it even worse, although the blood was needed in the brain. Additionally, in any other than the sitting position there was a threat of asphyxiation due to aspiration of the blood.

Sherlock was quite tall and completely limp, so it took John a lot of effort to bring him into the wanted position. He slid down behind the Consulting Detective to make sure he wouldn't fall over, one arm holding him in position, with the other hand trying to give him a slap so that he would wake up. John vaguely noticed that he was covered in Sherlock's blood by now, but he didn't care.

"Sherlock! Wake up!"

The tall man groaned slightly. At least he was still there. And yet, John knew that it was only a matter of minutes.

"I'm giving you some nasal spray now, mate, let's hope it works!"

John fumbled to get the spray into Sherlock's nose and pinched the sides of it, however knowing that this was just a desperate attempt to do anything. Most likely the bleeding would be too strong anyway and would wash the spray out, but this was better than simply waiting for his friend to die. There was really nothing more John could do without any medical equipment. The ruptured artery had to be found and sealed.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to lose you to a nosebleed, do you get that?! That's ridiculous! You have just survived a nerve gas attack, and you will survive this nosebleed, ok? Promise!"

"Ngn…." Since the blood couldn't run from the nose because of the pressure John applied to it, it now gushed from Sherlock's mouth. That wasn't good! John let go of his flatmate's nose. This was definitely arterial bleeding.

John tried to regain his composure as he noticed a tremor that befell him – fear. He was a doctor after all, used to dealing with heaps of blood. This wasn't the first time he had to deal with arterial bleeding, not even in people he knew. However, for the second time in a couple of weeks he had to comprehend that dealing with a real friend was something completely different. Not being able to treat your friend at all and just having to watch him bleed out, that was more than he could cope with!

"Mycroft!" John yelled in a panic. "Help!"


	18. Help comes

John felt for Sherlock's pulse, which had dangerously sped up while being extremely weak. He literally saw the life streaming from his friend. John knew that if help in units of stored blood wouldn't arrive soon, there was nothing they could do. No CPR would help Sherlock anymore.

John felt empty. He hadn't realized that he had started gently rocking his flatmate backwards and forwards when finally the medical team arrived in the flat.

The first thing John noticed consciously was Mycroft violently cursing. A fact so strange that the ex-army doctor came to life again.

"Finally," he managed to say, ignoring the tears that had already started finding their way from his eyes.

Together with two men in white they lifted Sherlock from the floor and carried him from the bathroom to the living-room where there was more space to move. Finally, his medical training kicking in again, John gave a report on his flatmate's status.

"Arterial epistaxis, hypovolemic shock stage 4, tachycard, unsuccessful pressure application, applied vasoconstrictant, however no change in blood flow. We need blood transfusion immediately, have the defibrillator ready – and who's the ENT-specialist?"

One of the medical team briefly raised a hand, continuing in his preparations.

"Dr Jones," the man said, nodding once. John just looked at him intently. Jones, yeah, or whatever name it really was.

"I'm going to try cauterization first. If that doesn't help, we'll have to make an angiography and embolize the artery."

John raised his eyebrows in amazement.

"Here?"

"We have portable x-ray and we'll go into the carotid artery from the neck, not from the groin."

"You must be very good, then!" John remarked.

"He's better than any ENT-specialist you have ever met, that's why he's here," John heard Mycroft's more or less steady voice behind him. So, he had regained his composure as well. John threw a glance over his shoulder and saw that that wasn't quite true as Mycroft's complexion could almost compete with his brother's, but at the moment John couldn't be bothered about him.

The rush of adrenaline helped John to be able to work alongside the medical team. He didn't want to be left outside this time, he wanted to help.

Sherlock was intubated, so that the blood couldn't get into his lungs and suffocate him. At the same time an IV cannula was attached to the pit of his elbow and the first unit of stored blood started to fill Sherlock's veins. It seemed as if the blood ran from his nose again as fast as it ran into his vessels. Soon the second unit had to be attached and still the bleeding was continuing.

The ENT-specialist had a hard time trying to see the spot where the artery was ruptured. He finally shook his head.

"No, this won't work, I'll have to embolize."

"Ok, what can I do?" John asked while pressing an Ambu bag in a very regular pattern to support Sherlock's breathing.

"Make sure he doesn't die in the meantime."

"Funny one," John grumbled, although he knew that this was the toughest part. Sherlock was only barely alive. They had to stop the bleeding fast as the attached heart monitor clearly signalled imminent danger.

"No miraculous cure on hand for this?" John remarked snidely in Mycroft's direction. Mostly the reasons for artery nosebleed were high blood pressure, which Sherlock didn't have, as far as John knew, or inherited aneurisms. You could never know about the latter, however, John had a feeling that this wasn't just an unlucky coincidence. He was convinced that it had to do with the drug Sherlock had had administered after the Tabun poisoning. He would have to get back to that later. For the time being he needed to keep his full concentration on taking care of Sherlock.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft answered honestly, ignoring the ex-army doctor's jibe. "You know, if I had one I would not hesitate to use it."

"Yup, no matter what – I know." John felt that he was getting angry. He told himself to calm down. This wouldn't help at all, he really had to concentrate. John watched the doctor disinfect the skin on Sherlock's neck, then push a cannula into his artery. Pushing a catheter into the carotid artery in a hospital was difficult and held a danger of hitting the wrong vessel, which could easily result in blindness; doing the same on a living-room floor was insane, and yet the only means to stop this damn bleeding!

John felt somebody hang a lead vest over his shoulders and saw the portable x-ray device being set into place.

"We're running out of blood." Somebody said and John felt something cold crawling up his back. They hadn't managed to slow down the bleeding and Sherlock was in fact instantly losing most of the blood that was running from the bag into his body.

"You don't have any more blood?" he asked without addressing anybody particular.

A still very pale Mycroft stepped up to him. "We didn't have enough time. Sherlock's blood group is not the most common."

"What is it?"

"A negative."

Looking at his blood-covered friend John shook his head, "You have to be extraordinary in every possible way, haven't you? Mycroft, what's yours?"

"A positive."

No, that wouldn't work.

"Anybody here in this room with A negative?" he shouted.

Nobody answered in affirmation. John sighed. What he was about to offer held a very high risk, however, they had to try.

"Take mine! Have a quick cross-match. I'm O negative. If not any of the other subgroups are too different, it'll work."

John stretched out one arm, carefully going on pressing the Ambu bag with the other one.

Nobody argued, they simply slid a needle into the vein at the crook of John's arm, attached a catheter to it and took a sample. Having done the same with Sherlock, the man in white mixed the two and checked for agglutination under the microscope that had miraculously materialized from seemingly nowhere.

"Match!" he exclaimed. "Alright, there's just half a bag left; we'll prepare you."

While John was laid down on a blanket the ENT-specialist carried on trying to find the ligated vessel. John watched the monitor of the portable x-ray anxiously. Chances weren't too good that this would have a happy ending and Sherlock's vital signs were getting worse from minute to minute. If the tachycardia stayed like this it was only a matter of time until cardiac arrest. John wouldn't want to think about it.

Suddenly Dr Jones clicked his tongue. "Found it! I will now embolize it. Let's hope it'll work."

He slid a second catheter into the artery and at the same time when John's blood started to flow into Sherlock's body, he finally managed to stop the bleeding. The x-ray picture displayed an interrupted blood flow in one of the arteries.

"He's lucky after all. If it doesn't start bleeding again, this will be it." Dr Jones informed them.

John sat up slightly, supporting himself with his lower arms, relieved that at least Sherlock wasn't losing the blood he was being donated any more. John hoped that there wouldn't be any transfusion reaction, since they had only done the roughest possible testing as to the matching of the blood groups.

Dr Jones pulled out the catheters slowly and very carefully and another medical man applied pressure on the arterial wound on Sherlock's throat before removing the dressing again and stitching the wound up.

John felt slightly dizzy and lay back onto the blanket, closing his eyes for a moment. After some time he felt that the catheter in his arm was disconnected. He forced his eyes open, looking straight into another pair of worried eyes. John pushed himself into an upright position, glaring at the aristocratic person in front of him.

"I am grateful. And I am sorry," an unusually touched Mycroft stated quietly.

John felt anger rising in his guts. Bloody hell, he was supposed to be!

"Are you sorry for Sherlock having nearly died the second time? Then you should probably ask yourself what the reason is for that!"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't it too much of a coincidence that this has happened right now? Don't you consider it possible that it has to do with the secret drug you had your doctor administer him?! I thought that you, at least, would keep an eye on him!" John ranted.

"I asked you to keep an eye on him, remember?" Mycroft asked coldly. "Where were you? You were still wearing your jacket when we arrived, and there's a travel bag in the hallway, so apparently you weren't here when the nosebleed started, were you?! So, don't you talk to _me_ about keeping an eye on my brother!"

"Stalemate," John had to admit quietly, avoiding telling Mycroft anything about his trip to Germany.

"John, as much as you want to see the villain in me, you may realize one day that you are wrong."

The ex-army doctor was stunned. Whatever he had expected Mycroft to say, it hadn't been anything like that.

"I doubt that," he snapped back, when all of a sudden the heart monitor set off the alarm.

"Ventricular fibrillation!" Dr Jones barked.

"Sherlock!" John and Mycroft yelled with one voice.

"Defibrillation! Back!"

This felt like a déjà vu, seeing Sherlock's torso jump from the electroshocks twice before the pulse was back.

John crawled over to his flatmate, suggesting the other doctor that he could do the cardiac pressure massage. Together with Dr Jones he worked on Sherlock, John pressing thirty times, the other one pressing the Ambu bag twice. They kept going like this until they felt it was safe to let go of the Consulting Detective. The heart monitor beeped regularly, and yet the pulse was very flat and still too fast.

Nobody spoke a word, apparently everyone was too shocked.

John felt miserable. They had managed to finally stop the bleeding and Sherlock hadn't gone into cardiac arrest before, so was this a sign of haemolysis? Had there been any incompatibility that they hadn't seen in the quick check of the blood samples? If Sherlock showed any other signs of it and died, then he, John himself, would have killed his flatmate!

John crouched in front of the unconscious man, giving free rein to his desperation. His shoulders started shaking violently, the tears blurring his vision.

"You need to rest." A distant voice reached his consciousness and John felt a firm grip on his shoulder. He knew the grip and the voice – they were Mycroft's. He tried to shake the hand off his shoulder, but didn't manage.

"Get your hands off me!" John hissed. He stumbled to his feet and dragged himself to the bathroom. Having taken a fresh wash cloth and wetted it, he slowly walked back to Sherlock, ignoring the glances in his direction.

He gently wiped his friend's face, trying to get the blood off, but the cloth was quickly soaked with it, smearing, not cleaning. Somebody handed a bowl of warm water to him, which he took without noticing who had done it. He washed the cloth and went on cleaning, having shut himself from the rest of the world. _Don't die_ , was all that he could think.


	19. Convincing Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers,  
> I do have a degree in Biology, but I am far from being a medical expert; and a lot of the particular medical knowlege I have about the things I'm writing here, I gathered from doing research on the internet. Although I always try to find reliable sources, I sometimes struggle with finding information at all. Thus, I apologize for any medical incorrectness. Just take it as writer's freedom, will you? Thank you!  
> _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

John had gently wiped away most of the blood from his friend's face and chest when the beeping of the heart monitor slowed down a bit, the graphs on the screen becoming more regular in their amplitudes and frequencies. That was a good sign. The liquid substitution and the blood transfusion had apparently worked and the blood pressure was improving, although it wasn't even close to normal by now. However, it seemed that the immediate danger had been averted.

John wasn't aware that tears of relief mixed with the blood on Sherlock's body. If Sherlock had died with John's blood in his veins, the doctor was convinced that he would have despised himself, would have hated his own blood, and wouldn't have wanted to keep that deadly liquid in himself. He would have found a way to get rid of it and to join Sherlock. Slashing your wrists wasn't a tough thing to do and it wasn't the most unpleasant of deaths. John shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Sherlock was alive and in his subconscious John wondered if he should probably reconsider adjusting the dose of his Diazepam having such disturbing thoughts.

The ex-army doctor distantly perceived his name being called.

"John! We have to get him to the clinic…"

That sent pricks through John's body. He remembered how Sherlock had begged not to be taken to hospital when John had arrived, finding his flatmate in that miserable state in the bathroom. Apparently, he had been much more terrified by their stay in the clinic than he would ever admit while fully conscious.

"No!" John exclaimed furiously. "You will not take him to that clinic again!"

"John, be reasonable!" Mycroft scolded.

" _I_ can take care of him."

Sherlock's brother laughed scornfully. "Look at you, _Doctor_ Watson, you are undoubtedly out of your senses, and you want to take care of my brother?"

"I might be out of my senses, but that's just because I _care_! I am still a medical man and I am only acting on my patient's behalf and wishes. I will take care of him right here, no matter what you say! Just leave me some of the medical equipment."

"You are not acting on anybody's wishes, let alone behalf, because of the simple reason that Sherlock is not your patient! You have no legal rights," Mycroft replied disdainfully. "I really have to doubt your medical abilities, John. He has just survived another cardiac arrest and you think you can take care of him _on your own_?"

Mycroft gave John a piercing look, a deep frown on his face.

"Not only _can_ I do it, I _will_! And you won't persuade me otherwise! If you are acting in his best interest, as you always point out, then leave him here."

"You are… insane!" Sherlock's brother spat.

John got to his feet and invaded Mycroft's personal space, waving the blood-soaked wash cloth in his hand.

"You – will have to kill me to get Sherlock out of here."

That earned John a pitiless smirk. "Although it is not a means that I prefer, it wouldn't be a problem. I assume you are aware of that as we had this little talk before, remember?"

John glared at the older Holmes. He seemed to have noticed a shift of expression in John's face as he raised his eyebrows just a split-second before the ex-army man's fist shot up into Mycroft's face.

The tall man stumbled backwards, gripping the edge of the table to prevent him from falling. Obviously that hadn't been what he had expected. He straightened his shoulders, wiping away the tiny trail of blood running from his nose.

The room was dead quiet apart from the beeping of the heart monitor and the regular hissing of the Ambu bag being pressed.

Everyone was staring alternately at John and Mycroft, the former looking down at the disobedient hand guiltily, the latter staring at the ex-army doctor coldly and yet with slight amazement.

John was shocked by his own reaction. That was actually more than a bit not good and didn't really help to refute what Mycroft had just said about his state of mind. In fact, he had just proven that he was as crazy as one could get by punching the most powerful man he knew straight into the face in front or far too many witnesses.

Actually, John himself had started wondering whether Mycroft was right. From when the team had arrived in the flat he had given them a display of his weakness, rocking his friend and sobbing over him. Most people would probably just dismiss it as sentiment, but that was the exact problem when dealing with Mycroft Holmes.

The doctor was numb. He was sure that he had just squandered any chance of keeping Sherlock in his care. This loss of control was the worst that could have happened, because nothing in the world would keep Mycroft now from taking his brother to the clinic, forcing John to let his friend down, that was for sure. John's vision blurred and the ex-army doctor had to force back the tears that were burning in his eyes once again. Keeping his promise was not only a matter of friendship but also of honour, and he had _always_ been an honourable and trustworthy man.

John raised his eyes, looking straight into the older man's face.

_Pull yourself together, John Watson, you will not fail your best friend!_ he thought. _Mycroft had it coming, long since._

John didn't know what he could say to avoid worseninghis position, so he kept quiet and waited. Finally, Mycroft broke the silence.

"Admittedly, your arguments are quite forceful," he said in a low voice. "What reason is there – apart from this one - that should convince me to leave my brother in your care?" Mycroft enquired, rubbing his chin.

John hesitated. His heart was pounding. "He begged me," he stated plainly, in absence of anything better to say but the truth.

Mycroft stopped short. His eyes narrowed and he slightly tilted his head.

"I see," was all he said slowly.

For a time that felt endless there was again silence, the two men having locked eyes. Although no word was uttered, their glances spoke volumes - a silent battle fought between the ex-army man and the personification of the British Government, however, John knew that he had gone too far this time.

"What do you need?"

John choked. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, what do you need?"

John's jaw had dropped. He was completely stunned, having expected anything but this. However, he knew that he had to reply fast before Mycroft changed his mind, as he might perceive a delayed reaction as yet another proof of John's inability to take care of Sherlock.

So, John forced himself to switch into doctor mode and enumerate the things he needed, while carefully watching Mycroft, whose face remained deadpan, a bruise forming on his cheek. John still couldn't believe Mycroft's change of mind, but it seemed as if Sherlock's brother had been convinced by something. His face hadn't given John any sign as to what Mycroft really felt, his glances only displaying his power. John was pretty sure that it hadn't been his punch that had persuaded Mycroft, so apparently this man, usually as emotional as steel, did have something like a heart.

After John and Mycroft had come to terms, Sherlock's breathing aid was removed and he was lifted onto his bed, the heart monitor being placed on the night stand. John didn't need very much apart from more fluid substitutes and some emergency drugs in case anything unforeseen happened. Although John rejected any help, Mycroft insisted on at least leaving one of his medical team within reach. In other words, there would always be one of those black limousines outside 221B with a doctor on board who would just wait in case John needed help. He considered this a complete waste, but had no choice but to agree.

After the medical team had already left with most of the equipment, John sat down on the edge of the bed next to his still unconscious flatmate, whose nose and mouth were covered by a breathing mask, the attached oxygen flask hissing soothingly. Suddenly, Mycroft half entered the room, stopping in the doorway.

"I am really not sure whether I won't end up regretting my decision. Don't disappoint me, John. In the worst case scenario, rest assured that you will share my brother's fate." he said, his voice dangerously determined. He turned around on his heels and started walking from the room.

That hadn't been a threat to John. If Sherlock died, he wouldn't want to live anyway. At least he wouldn't have to think about how to take his life, John thought bitterly.

"Mycroft," John hailed the inscrutable man, who turned around again, giving the doctor a questioning look.

"Thank you."

Sherlock's brother raised his eyebrows – and left.

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	20. Mrs. Hudson's visit

John's shoulders slumped, all strength having vanished. He started crying again, quite involuntarily. It had all been a little too much, and again he had been so bloody afraid of losing Sherlock – and he still was as there could be life-threatening after-effects of a hypovolemic shock.

Before John had met Sherlock after returning from Afghanistan, his life had been empty, boring, merely pathetic and not really worth living. There had been many times when he had taken the gun from the drawer of his desk, weighing it in his hands and contemplating which was better - to live or to put a bullet in his mouth. He had been despairing, traumatized, not able and not willing to change anything in his miserable existence. He had already been dead while still breathing.

Everything had changed that memorable day when he had first met Mike Stamford and later Sherlock. All of a sudden, he had recovered his strength and he felt reborn! He didn't want to go back to those past days. He wanted to feel that he was needed, and, therefore, Sherlock _had_ to live, being the source of John's own will to live. Not only was Sherlock his friend, he was closer to a brother than Harry had ever been a sister to him. In fact, it often felt that they were one, however conflicting, unit, the plus and the minus, the fire and the water. Their personal co-evolution had taken place very fast, they were in fact dependent on each other, John serving as a substitute for Sherlock's skull, however one that told him what was right or wrong, and Sherlock the source of constant thrill and, yes, annoyance. They needed each other, were each other's oxygen. Never ever would they speak about it, but John was sure that if Sherlock was able to put his emotions into words, the gist of them would be similar to his own thoughts.

John shook his head as if to clear his mind of these thoughts, when he suddenly heard someone coming up the stairs.

"Yoo…- My Goodness! Sherlock! John! What have you done to my carpet?!" Mrs Hudson yelled.

John tried to wipe away the tears of despair and exhaustion, but they kept flowing.

"Here," he managed to say weakly, not knowing if Mrs Hudson had even heard him.

A couple of seconds later, she peered into Sherlock's room, all colour vanishing from her face. She put her hand over her mouth in shock. John was too exhausted to walk up to her, so he simply remained sitting at the edge of the bed, looking at her with the tears streaking his cheeks.

"Oh dear!" was all Mrs Hudson was capable of saying. She knelt down in front of John, gripping his hands and looking worriedly at Sherlock. "What happened?" she whispered.

In a faltering voice John told their landlady about Sherlock almost bleeding to death and how they had been able to save him.

"Will he be ok?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," John stammered. He was weeping uncontrollably now, all his medical and military self-control completely lost, his sorrow and fear finding their ways. "He's still in danger of renal failure as an aftermath of the blood loss," he sobbed, not even feeling embarrassed about it.

Mrs Hudson embraced the broken man, gently stroking his hair.

"He's strong, you know, John? He's been through a lot of bad things before, his will to live by then had been much weaker than today. But since you have moved in he has really loved his life – I could see that. He won't let you down, I am sure." The old lady secretly blinked away a tear from her eye.

"You think so?" John asked tentatively. He was all tears, sorrowing over Sherlock's and his own fate.

"I _know_ ," Mrs Hudson said firmly, trying to reassure him.

John sat back, attempting to regain his composure. If he couldn't control his crying, Mycroft would be proved to be right about him not being able to take care of Sherlock. So, he wiped away the tears determinedly, taking a couple of deep ragged breaths.

"You know what, Mrs Hudson? You stay here for a minute and I'll make us a nice cuppa." He tried to sound cheerful, yet didn't fully manage it. Mrs Hudson gave him a supportive smile.

When John left for the kitchen their landlady sat herself on the edge of the bed, gingerly sweeping a strand of hair from Sherlock's forehead.

What the doctor didn't hear anymore was Mrs Hudson whispering.

"Come on, love, get back to us, will you? Your friends are waiting for you."

 

 


	21. Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos!! I absolutely appreciate them!  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hours had passed by. Mrs Hudson had originally come to tell Sherlock and John that she would be away for a couple of days, visiting her sister who wasn't well. She had wanted to skip her plans, but John had finally talked her into going. She couldn't help much anyway. He promised to phone her regularly to let her know how Sherlock was doing. So she finally got a cab and left for the station.

It was very quiet in 221B Baker Street, no pacing, no tunes on the violin, no rants or deductions, just the regular beeping and the hissing of the medical aid Sherlock was attached to.

John had dropped into the chair opposite Sherlock's bed. He was extremely tired and yet couldn't get any rest – he needed to look after his flatmate as his unconsciousness started to worry him more and more. He should have woken up by now, the anaesthetic from the surgery being ineffective after this amount of time, but Sherlock didn't show any signs of regaining consciousness. John had to wait, doing quick checks on the oxygen saturation and the renal function. Most of the time, however, he remained in his rather uncomfortable position in the chair, watching his flatmate, his thoughts drifting away.

He wondered if he had misjudged Mycroft. He was a tough man to understand, being outwardly as cold as ice, and nevertheless showing signs of being all too human when it came to his brother. The usually fully composed man had been reduced to swearing and his complexion had told more about his inner self than he would ever have been able to express verbally. And still there was this strange feeling of unease in his presence.

Only when John almost slipped off the chair, did he realize that he had fallen asleep. Checking his watch, he noticed though, that it hadn't been for long, not more than a couple of minutes. However, it had been a clear sign of how exhausted he was. Not wanting to leave his flatmate alone, yet knowing that he needed to rest, John fetched some blankets from his room and the living-room and lay down next to Sherlock's bed.

Staring at the ceiling wearily, John muttered more to himself than to the other man in the room, "Sherlock, I am really fed up with asking you for the favour of not dying. You know, I can get quite pissed off, so _stop this_!" As he had expected there was no answer. He sighed. If only Sherlock would wake up.

John drifted into a little restorative sleep. When he woke up, it was dark. His back was aching, all muscles tense. He struggled to his feet, wiping the sleep from his face and moaning slightly from the pain in his limbs. Upon checking on Sherlock he found that nothing had changed – unfortunately.

John realized that he was still covered in Sherlock's blood, as was the Consulting Detective himself, apart from those spots the ex-army doctor had managed to clean a bit with the wash cloth. John needed a hot shower, but he would have to scrub the bathroom before. Having a shower in what looked like a slaughterhouse wasn't actually what he was looking forward to.

After having washed away the tiredness and the blood, now dressed in comfortable jumper and trousers, John undressed Sherlock in order to clean him too, having to cut his shirt to get it off him. He carefully washed his torso, neck and face and tried to clean his friend's hair as much as possible. He was glad that nobody watched him, tears already filling his eyes again. How many times would John be there just in time, and how many times would Sherlock be able to survive? John spread a blanket over his friend, as it felt a bit chilly in the room.

Sherlock's chest was rising and falling regularly and gave proof that this time John had in fact been able to rescue him, although any permanent damage had yet to be revealed. However, he had again not been able to do it all on his own. He was slightly upset about how dependent he was on Mycroft when it came to saving Sherlock's life.

John remembered the documents he had brought from Germany. As he couldn't do much but wait anyway, he decided to get them from downstairs where he had dropped his bag and briefcase and to look through them. Maybe he could find anything that would give them a hint on where the Tabun had come from.

In the hallway he couldn't find the briefcase. His travel bag was still there, though. He wondered if he had left the item in the cab, but he could certainly recall throwing it on the floor. He looked around in the hallway, but there was nothing there, and it was the same in the flat. "That's impossible," John muttered. After checking on Sherlock once again, he searched the entire flat and the ground floor for the papers – in vain.

That was strange, as nobody had known about the documents apart from his German friend Christoph. John was just walking up the stairs again when a thought struck him. Nobody apart from Mycroft and his people had been in the house, consequently only one of them could have taken the briefcase. He quickly ran up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He had to check if his mobile was still in the back pocket of the trousers he had carelessly thrown on the floor in the bathroom. Fortunately, it was there.

John wondered how it could be possible that Mycroft knew about the documents. If that was the case he also knew about John's trip to Germany, so the questioning on where he had been had only been hiding what he really knew. If actually those documents had been taken by Mycroft or his men, it was, consequently, very likely that they held important information. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when John thought about it. If Mycroft knew about the documents he also knew where exactly they had come from, therefore, Christoph was in danger. In what kind of danger, John wasn't sure, that actually depended on the information in the papers. Although it was in the middle of the night, John had to call his German friend to make sure he was ok.

He dialled his number and instantly heard the automated message, "The person you have called is temporarily unavailable."

Shit! The ex-army man was aware of the fact that there could be a simple explanation for it as it was night-time and usually people slept at this hour of day, however, John felt that it might also be a sign that something was wrong. Mycroft was a dangerous man and heaven knew what was in the documents. John had to check instantly.

He went back to Sherlock's room with his laptop and downloaded the photographs from his mobile. He examined the pictures of the documents carefully, but they didn't give him the faintest hint on why they were so important as to be worth stealing. They were explosive, definitely, since they contained information about Tabun testing on human beings during World War II, but, as bad as that was, it didn't tell John anything about any connection to Sherlock. There had to be something that he failed to see. Christoph hadn't had any idea either, he had simply photocopied those papers that revealed any connection to England. Most of the papers were letters with data and results, really dreadful matters. John would have to show them to Sherlock. Maybe he could deduce more from the documents.

Just as John was thinking that, Sherlock groaned a little bit, his eyes fluttering open.

"You're back," John stated relieved, setting the laptop down, walking over to the bed and sitting down on its edge carefully. He scrutinized his too pale friend.

The Consulting Detective tried to lift his hand to his mouth, but John pre-empted him and took the breathing mask off.

Sherlock looked at him slightly confused and tried to clear his throat, but when he attempted to say something he flinched.

"What…?" he said with an all croaky voice.

"Oh, you tried to compete with the pig that you had harpooned once. At least our living-room and the bathroom look like it." John explained with a smile.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, then he seemed to remember.

"Oh, nosebleed."

"Yes, your nosebleed. You almost bled to death!" John ranted, although he wasn't angry, it was just his worries that made him sound so.

"That bad?" Sherlock probed.

"Worse."

Sherlock gave John a questioning look, but the ex-army man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Later."

John's patient shifted in his bed, trying to look himself up and down. He inhaled sharply as if in pain. There was a surprised look on his face and his hand shot to the dressing on his neck.

"Don't touch, you had a little surgery. That's also the reason why your voice is a bit hoarse."

"Intubation?" Sherlock whispered.

The doctor nodded. "You would have choked on your own blood. Really, Sherlock, there was a lot of it, I can tell."

"Hmm, remember the bathroom," he croaked.

"Yeah, I found you in there. You are very thorough in everything, you know? You can't just get a nosebleed, no, you have to get an unstoppable arterial nosebleed!"

The doctor shook his head, looking at his flatmate. "Can't you just once be ordinary?"

"Want to get up," Sherlock demanded, trying to get the cables off his chest and ignoring John's enquiry.

"Haha, my friend, you have just lost about at least half of your blood. You can try to get up, but I can assure you that you'll have a nice meeting with the floor. I suggest you stay put for a while." John replied, pushing away Sherlock's hands from the patches of the heart monitor.

"Half of my blood?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly.

"Yup, about so."

"Oh." He pointed to the heart monitor. "Mycroft?"

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, I had to call him. You know, arterial nosebleed isn't just a petty affair, but I guess we share an archenemy now."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I – I punched him in the face," John explained hesitatingly, looking down at his hands.

"Well, so there was too much subtext in what he said?" the Consulting Detective stated with much effort and a smile on his face. "That was – brave, I'd say."

"Oh, as much as I would like to take that as a compliment, I reckon that in this case your brother actually was correct in what he once told me – _sometimes_ bravery _is_ by far the kindest word for stupidity. He wasn't pleased, as you can imagine."

"At least he didn't get you assassinated instantly, so you must have impressed him somehow." Sherlock whispered, his eyes already closed in exhaustion.

"Well, there's something – human about him, in fact, Sherlock, when it comes to you." In the back of his mind, John was thinking about the vanished documents and what they said about the degree of Mycroft's caring, but he didn't say anything about it. His flatmate had to rest and to recover before he would be able to deal with that matter.

Sherlock only made a little sound of annoyance. "Why did you punch him?"

"Well, it wasn't subtext, which annoyed me, but you, Sherlock Holmes, had begged me not to take you to a hospital and I had to convince your brother of it."

"I never beg."

"Believe me, you do! You have very human moments, too, although, admittedly, you were not fully conscious by then."

Sherlock didn't say anything, instead he looked away slightly embarrassed.

"I'll get you some water, you have to drink a lot to rehydrate. Don't move, ok? You'll be laid low for a while." John said in order to ease the situation a bit.

When he went to get up from the bed, Sherlock suddenly gripped his arm right under the elbow, exactly where the IV cannula for the blood transfusion had been and where now a thick pressure plaster stuck to prevent any bruises from forming.

"You look pale," the Consulting Detective stated.

"Do I? Well, I must admit, it wasn't a really pleasurable day, quite exhausting, to be honest." John knew that it wasn't just his tiredness that made his complexion slightly unhealthy. He had donated about three quarters of a litre of his own blood, which his body had to deal with, leaving him a bit slowed down and slightly dizzy at times.

Sherlock locked eyes with John and suddenly his eyes opened wide as if he had one of his brain waves.

"You said I lost half of my blood - did I get any transfusions?"

"'Course you did. You'd be dead otherwise!" John exclaimed.

"Was it stored blood?" Sherlock probed.

John lowered his eyes. He knew where this was leading. Going by the look on Sherlock's face, he had already deduced the truth. There was no point in hiding anything from the Consulting Detective, so John decided to tell him everything, wondering if Sherlock would actually be pleased to have his blood running in his veins.

"Ok, you want to hear the full story, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "In every detail."

"Water first," John instructed and left for the kitchen, giving him some time to prepare how he would tell Sherlock what had happened. As he had before when Sherlock had deduced his participation in resuscitating him after the Tabun poisoning, John felt uncomfortable giving his flatmate insight in his role in rescuing him this time.

With some water and a cup of tea for himself, John returned to Sherlock's bedroom. His patient seemed to have fallen asleep, so he set the water on the nightstand and dropped into the chair, sighing heavily.

"Try not to be too emotional, ok?" a muffled voice came from the direction of the bed. So he hadn't been sleeping and was now proving that he was still his typical self.

John shot up, suddenly exasperated.

"Sh..., " John paused for a second, taking a deep breath, "Sherlock! It wasn't you who had to rescue you for the second time in just weeks! I am a doctor, yes; with battlefield experience even, also yes; but have you got the slightest idea what battlefield it is that I have been fighting at? No, you don't, because you got yourself knocked out by the poison first and then bled out in the bathroom, both times just not getting what was happening to you! But I did! I was scared, Sherlock! I don't really care if you want to hear about emotions or not, but I was SCARED OUT OF MY WITS! It's one thing to lose a comrade on the battlefield, that's a risk you have to live with when you go to war, and God knows how difficult it is to deal with that, but losing a real friend, that's simply a very different matter! You know, with normal people death, or the sight of it, goes hand-in-hand with sentiment, so come to terms with it!"

John stomped from the room, having to take a deep breath. He was pacing the living-room to cool down when he heard Sherlock say: "It's fine."

The doctor went back to where his flatmate lay, still snorting with rage, and gave him the overdue lecture on the word _fine_. When John had finished his rant, much to his dismay Sherlock simply stated another "Fine", but smiled broadly at the furious doctor, finally eliciting a grin from John, the anger gone as fast as it had overcome him.

Suddenly, Sherlock became serious.

"John, I am aware that it must have been quite stressful for you, not least of all because you were clearly more involved than just any doctor, I do get that. I think, sometimes it's actually good that you literally put pressure on me - at least my chest feels like you did. Erm, …"

John couldn't believe that Sherlock had again deduced that he had helped to resuscitate him once more. However, it seemed that he was struggling with this realization. John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Are you trying to say _thank you for saving my life_?" he asked, coming to Sherlock's assistance.

Suddenly something entirely unexpected and extraordinary happened. John was watching his flatmate and he first thought he had got it wrong, but he hadn't. Sherlock's eyes were shining. He closed them quickly as if to avoid John seeing, but a single tell-tale tear ran down his cheeks.

John was taken aback. He couldn't believe what he saw. The world's only Consulting Detective, who occasionally made use of his ability to produce tears on command, would never cry due to _emotions_. And yet, maybe he had not only misjudged Mycroft but also Sherlock. As much as Sherlock pretended not to have a heart, his tears finally proved him wrong. Seeing his friend touched like that threw John off balance and he felt his own tears welling up in his eyes.

"It's _fine_ ," he whispered, turned around and left the bedroom, clearing his throat. He didn't want to reveal how prone to tears he was himself and he didn't want to make the situation even more awkward than it was anyway, so he left for the kitchen to get some more tea. The hot liquid would help him to calm down. Tea always helped.

John waited for the water to boil, blinking away his own tears and taking a few deep breaths. Having regained his composure, thinking about his tearful flatmate actually made John smile. This moment of weakness in Sherlock had been much greater proof of their friendship than any words could ever be. He was sure that Sherlock would never speak about what had just happened, but he didn't have to.

John went back to the bedroom, being sure that Sherlock would be ok by now. He stopped in the doorway, leaning to the doorframe and watching his flatmate, the teacup in his hands.

Sherlock had noticed that he had returned from the kitchen. He opened his eyes, which didn't show any signs of tears anymore and looked straight into John's face.

"Do you think emotions are chemicals that are transferred with blood donations?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John threw his head back and laughed with all his heart. So he had already deduced John's blood donation, too.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a bloody nutcase!"

"I can handle that," he replied with a smile on his face, however weakly, already drifting into sleep.

_Rest and recover, my friend_ , John thought, still giggling.


	22. Sherlock's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, more or less, a bonus chapter. It is Sherlock's wakening from his point of view.

**Sherlock's POV**

Tired, he was tired. His body felt heavy and limp. He distantly perceived some sounds, muffled first, but slowly becoming more distinct - beeps and hisses and someone breathing. Breathing – dull! There was something on his face and a light stream of air was brushing his nose and lips – he was wearing a breathing mask. Why that? He generally _did_ consider breathing boring, but not so boring that he would actually forget about it.

The beeps were quite soothing in so far as they were coming in a regular pattern, however, the sound could get annoying when listening to it for longer. He remembered that he had heard the same sound not too long ago, so he recognized what it belonged to – a heart monitor. The only question was whose heart monitor it was. He was wearing a breathing mask, so probably there was a reason why he needed monitoring of his vital signs, therefore, he assumed it was his.

Breathing mask and heart monitor - the thought of being hospitalized struck him painfully. He hated hospitals, but he couldn't actually remember why. There were pictures appearing and disappearing, a young man with dark curly hair in agony, being tied to a bed; the same man screaming, yelling; again the same man rocking backwards and forwards in the corner of a room. He recognized the man - that was him. He couldn't recall why he had been in such miserable conditions, but he still felt the emotional pain. Emotional? He wasn't emotional. He was functioning. Dysfunctional. The word came to his mind. It had been used when talking about him quite often. It had to do with hospitals.

However, where he was didn't entirely feel like a hospital. It felt familiar. Familiar. Family. John. John! His flatmate. His friend? His brother? No, not brother. He wasn't family, in the literal sense, but he was _his_ family. There was other family, brother, Mycroft, he remembered, but he didn't trust the other family as much as he trusted John. John could be annoying from time to time, reminding him of how he was supposed to function in the "normal" people's world, but he was reliable, honest, loyal, caring. He liked him. No, he generally didn't _like_ people. Liking had to do with sentiment and he didn't go in for sentiment. John was his counterpart; he appreciated his company and sometimes even his ranting since it helped him find a balance. John had saved his life – he… had… saved… his… life. The words dripped into his consciousness. He was alive. But what reason was there why he shouldn't be so?

His brain wasn't functioning properly, his mind was a mess. Something had happened, but what? And where was John? And why did he feel he needed him? That was in fact strange and unfamiliar. He had to open his eyes to have his visual senses working and helping him to order his thoughts, but his eyelids were so heavy.

Finally, Sherlock fought his eyes open, groaning from the effort it took him, and from the pain that shot through his head.

"You're back," he heard a familiar voice say. John, he was there. Oh, and he wasn't in a hospital, he actually was in his own bedroom. John had been sitting in the chair opposite his bed. He put something on the floor and came over to him, sitting down on the edge of his bed. Usually, Sherlock would have disapproved of that, considering it too intimate, an invasion to his privacy. He hated when someone touched his bed, let alone sat on it. However, with John it was ok. Actually, John looked pale and tired and – something else. Worried? Usually Sherlock was quick in deducing situations, but this time he failed. There was a lot of data flowing in, but he couldn't process it.

The breathing mask was annoying. It put pressure to his slightly hypersensitive skin. He had to get rid of it, so with all the strength he could muster he lifted his hand to his mouth. The movement caused him a throbbing pain in his chest, which was also familiar to him, but he couldn't quite recall why.

John pre-empted him and took the mask away for him. Sherlock looked at his flatmate's face. His eyes were red, his skin around them a bit swollen. Had he been crying? In fact, it looked like it, but why would he cry? John was an army man - well, ex-army - and he didn't cry. He ranted, shouted and yelled, but he didn't cry. What was wrong? If his brain hadn't more or less shut down, he would have been able to deduce instantly. As much as he sometimes wished his mind would give him peace, he longed for his ability to read everything and everyone to come back. Everything around him seemed to hurl questions at him that he couldn't answer.

Sherlock wanted to speak, but the sheer attempt sent a flash of pain through his throat. It was all sore. He tried to clear it cautiously to avoid more pain. A meagre and hoarse "What..?" was all he managed to get out, his voice not really obeying him. Why was his throat hurting so much?

John understood. "Oh, you tried to compete with the pig that you had harpooned once. At least our living-room and the bathroom look like it," he explained with a smile.

Sherlock closed his eyes. The harpooned pig, yes, he remembered, but why would he compete with a dead pig? A vision of blood on his body crossed his mind and there were fragments of memories. John weeping. Impossible – although, he _had_ red eyes. Mycroft, his brother, swearing. Impossible, he would never lower himself to using inappropriate words. Mrs Hudson stroking him. Impossible – she cared for him, but why would she touch him? His mind was really playing tricks on him!

And suddenly everything shifted into place and the memories came back, however, the fragments still didn't make sense.

John had gone to Germany to get some documents about Tabun and he himself had stayed in Baker Street to get to the bottom of why there were gaps in his mind palace. So he had spent most of the time thinking, shutting himself from the world outside, when he had suddenly felt a sharp pain in his head and the nosebleed had started with just a few droplets first. However, the dripping had turned into pouring and that into spurting, and Sherlock had started worrying about it. By the time he had called John, he had already left unsightly spots on the carpet. He remembered getting some ice from the fridge and going to the bathroom because the bleeding had still gone worse.

"Oh, nosebleed," Sherlock managed to croak.

"Yes, your nosebleed. You almost bled to death!" John ranted as if it had been Sherlock's fault. Well, John tended to exaggerate, so Sherlock guessed that it hadn't actually literally been bleeding to death.

"That bad?" he probed.

"Worse." Sherlock didn't understand. So he assumed that he _had_ almost bled to death, which would be an explanation for all the medical equipment attached to him - and for his overwhelming tiredness. However, what could be worse than dying of a nosebleed, as John had implied? Sherlock looked at his flatmate questioningly. He really looked weary, but apparently didn't want to talk about what had happened, as he simply dismissed talking any further with a wave of his hand and a meagre "Later."

If he didn't want to tell him, Sherlock had to find out himself as much as possible. He slightly shifted in his bed in order to be able to see the rest of his body, when a piercing pain shot though his chest again and through his neck and he involuntarily tried to push it away with his hand. What was that? He had a dressing on his neck, obviously covering a wound that was causing the stabbing pain. He had had a nosebleed, so why did he have a wound at his neck?

"Don't touch, you had a little surgery. That's also the reason why your voice is a bit hoarse," John explained.

That made sense. "Intubation?" he whispered.

The doctor nodded. "You would have choked on your own blood. Really, Sherlock, there was a lot of it, I can tell."

"Hmm, remember the bathroom," he croaked.

"Yeah, I found you in there. You are very thorough in everything, you know? You can't just get a nosebleed, no, you have to get anunstoppable arterial nosebleed!"

John shook his head, looking at him. "Can't you just once be ordinary?"

Ordinary! It was ordinary enough that he was lying here in his bed at John's mercy. Ordinary and embarrassing. Although in his subconscious Sherlock knew that this was more or less ridiculous taking into consideration that he actually felt as if his body was made of lead, he decided that he wanted to get up. He just wanted to regain control over his body and get rid of the cables that were annoying him.

John laughed at him, warning him of a most probable and quite intimate contact with the floor in case he would try to get up as he had lost half of his blood. He pushed away Sherlock's hands from the patches of the heart monitor.

"Half of my blood?" Sherlock asked disbelievingly.

"Yup, about so."

"Oh." That explained a lot. Losing half of your blood _was_ dangerous. John had found him in the bathroom, so he had to have collapsed by then, because he couldn't recall that part. If he had actually lost so much blood, John had needed help. There was only one person who could provide them with medical equipment that could be left in any private person's flat.

He pointed to the heart monitor. "Mycroft?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I had to call him. You know, arterial nosebleed isn't just a petty affair, but I guess we share an archenemy now."

Archenemy? John had once told him that people didn't have archenemies, so what had he done? He knew that his flatmate didn't approve of his brother's secretiveness and that he felt uneasy in his brother's presence, although he always pretended to be relaxed. So what had happened? Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I – I punched him in the face," John explained hesitatingly, looking down at his hands.

Ouch! He had gained experience with John's fist for himself, although he himself had actually forced him into punching him as part of his disguise back then, but John had been enraged, not wanting to let go of him. He had proven that he was more a fighter than his outward appearance would suggest.

"Well, so there was too much subtext in what he said?" the Consulting Detective stated with much effort and a smile on his face. "That was – brave, I'd say."

Punching his brother in the face _was_ brave - well, _and_ stupid. Sherlock wasn't a physical man, but there had been times when he had wished he could have done exactly that.

"Oh, as much as I would like to take that as a compliment, I reckon that in this case your brother actually was correct in what he once told me – _sometimes_ bravery _is_ by far the kindest word for stupidity. He wasn't pleased, as you can imagine."

Yeah, he could imagine that. And his brother _was_ dangerous. Never ever would he let anybody humiliate him publicly. So either it had been just the two of them present, which was unlikely, given that there had been surgery on him, or there must have been a reason why Mycroft had tolerated it.

"At least he didn't get you assassinated instantly, so you must have impressed him somehow." Sherlock whispered, his eyes already closed in exhaustion.

"Well, there's something – human about him, in fact, Sherlock, when it comes to you."

Mycroft and human, those were two words that really didn't go together. Mycroft was his brother, and they were human beings – fine – but humanity wasn't an attribute that suited Mycroft. Being human had to do with caring, and caring wasn't an advantage. Mycroft had pointed out that matter of fact to him one night when he had actually doubted that just a tiny little bit.

Sherlock only made a little sound of annoyance. "Why did you punch him?"

"Well, it wasn't subtext, which annoyed me, but you, Sherlock Holmes, had begged me not to take you to a hospital and I had to convince your brother of it."

"I never beg."

"Believe me, you do! You have very human moments, too, although, admittedly, you were not fully conscious by then."

Sherlock didn't say anything, instead he looked away slightly embarrassed. Had he really begged? How – defective! He hated hospitals, yes, but he wasn't sure about the reason for it. The pictures of him in poor condition came back, but there were no clear memories accompanied by them. Had he once deleted them? Oh – the deleted memories! He had to talk to John about what he had found out, but he had to admit to himself that he needed some more rest. His mind had to work properly for that, as well as his voice, so he had to postpone it.

His flatmate got up from the bed in order to get Sherlock something to drink, unnecessarily instructing him to stay where he was.

Sherlock gripped John's arm. It was a reaction that he was surprised about himself. He had suddenly felt something that was close to being worried – about John. His hand closed around the lower part of the elbow and he felt something under John's sleeve. A dressing? A thick dressing.

"You look pale," the Consulting Detective stated.

"Do I? Well, I must admit, it wasn't a really pleasurable day, quite exhausting, to be honest."

Sherlock locked eyes with John. The doctor was hiding something from him, he avoided talking about what had happened. Why should he have a pressure plaster on his forearm if not for a removed IV cannula? John was pale and tired and the occasional blinking of the eyes were signs that he was dizzy.

_Oh!_

He, Sherlock, had lost a lot of blood, John was pale, tired, dizzy, had had an IV cannula in his arm. He was aware that John had saved his life by showing up just in time, but could it be that he had donated him some of his own blood to save him from bleeding out?

"You said I lost half of my blood - did I get any transfusions?"

"'Course you did. You'd be dead otherwise!" John exclaimed innocently.

"Was it stored blood?" Sherlock probed.

John lowered his eyes. So, it hadn't been just stored blood. Why that, he didn't know, but the facts were obvious and led to the conclusion that he had a bit of John's blood in his veins! And all of a sudden he remembered where the throbbing pain in his chest had come from – apparently he had been closer to death than he had yet realized. He was speechless. In fact, he felt numb. Was he really getting emotional? Emotions were disturbing, they kept him from thinking.

"Ok, you want to hear the full story, right?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "In every detail."

"Water first," John instructed and left for the kitchen

There was something that disturbed Sherlock about John – his eyes were red from crying, apparently. It didn't make sense and he didn't really want to hear about it. Crying was sentimental, which John could be occasionally, but it shouldn't be related to him. Sherlock closed his eyes, not knowing how to deal with John being all emotional about him. It made him insecure.

When John returned to the bedroom, Sherlock heard him set the water on the nightstand, and drop into the chair, sighing heavily.

"Try not to be too emotional, ok?" Sherlock mumbled, fighting the overwhelming tiredness.

Much to his shock, instead of just rolling his eyes, like he normally did, John shot up, glaring daggers at his flatmate and launched into a tirade about what it felt like to nearly lose a friend. When he finally drew breath, he seemed to subside a bit and stomped from the room. Sherlock heard him pacing the living-room.

He hadn't meant to upset his flatmate. He just didn't want to talk about emotions that he couldn't understand. So, in order to finally get to know what all this was about, he tried to soothe John by saying "It's fine."

The doctor went back to Sherlock, still snorting with rage, and gave him a lecture on which words to use instead of _fine_. Sherlock didn't really understand what John's problem was. The average native speaker of English had an active vocabulary of about fifteen thousand words at maximum, and _fine_ was one of them, so why not use it on a regular basis, why waste thinking about another word if this one expressed exactly what he wanted to say? Although, Sherlock had to admit to himself that he did actually use this word to avoid any further questions, so he was supposed to feel at least a tiny bit guilty. In fact, he didn't feel guilty; he was amused about the many words John enumerated that would be appropriate to say instead of just _fine_.

When John had finished his rant, Sherlock teased the doctor by repeating "Fine." It was accompanied, though, by a smile that he couldn't suppress. First, John stared at him, but Sherlock saw that his anger had disappeared as he finally replied with a grin.

The Consulting Detective was tired, but he had to get something out.

"John, I am aware that it must have been quite stressful for you, not least of all because you were clearly more involved than just any doctor, I _do_ get that. I think, sometimes it's actually good that you literally put pressure on me - at least my chest feels like you did. Erm, …"

John looked at him disbelievingly, his eyebrows raised.

"Are you trying to say _thank you for saving my life_?"

What happened right that moment was nothing Sherlock remembered having experienced since his childhood, nothing he had ever wanted to experience, since he considered it a flaw, although he occasionally made use of it deliberately, and, most of all, nothing he could cope with: tears welled up his eyes!

He was washed over with _emotions_! He, Sherlock Holmes! He was used to being called an emotionless machine without a heart and it didn't bother him; but what happened right now was proof enough that he had been wrong, as exactly his heart was betraying him now. He was grateful, yes, but there was something more, something much stronger that he couldn't find a word for – and it made him cry! How… ridiculous!

He closed his eyes to prevent the tears from falling and from John finding out about his mental – or emotional – condition, however, a single tear found its way down his cheek.

"It's _fine_ ," John whispered, turned around and left the bedroom, clearing his throat.

Sherlock's mind was whirling. So, that was what John meant when he was talking about being friends. There was actually more to it than relying on someone, being honest and straight. It _had_ to do with emotions. As suddenly as they had hit him, they were gone and Sherlock felt like himself again, more or less controlled and without the very unpleasant disturbance of emotions that blocked his mind.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw John leaning at the doorframe and watching him, his hands clinging to a cup of tea.

"Do you think emotions are chemicals that are transferred with blood donations?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John threw his head back and laughed with all his heart.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a bloody nutcase!"

"I can handle that," he replied with a smile on his face, however weakly, already drifting into sleep. Losing half of your blood _was_ exhausting!


	23. Catheter

Sherlock wouldn't admit, but the blood loss was taking its toll. John had forced him again into wearing the breathing mask, as the oxygen saturation of his blood wasn't quite perfect. Even minor exertions like sitting up in the bed for drinking or being washed – which Sherlock despised and didn't make a secret of – left him completely exhausted. What disturbed him most, though, was the highly embarrassing fact that he was wearing a Foley catheter and that John had to take urine samples from time to time. The doctor had explained to him that he was still at risk of renal failure, a quite common and unfortunately likely after-effect of such a blood loss, which could easily be lethal if not discovered and treated in time by filtering the blood in dialysis.

John tried to reassure Sherlock by being completely professional when he had to examine his patient, but he could understand his flatmate's uneasiness. As an army-doctor he had had many patients with urinary catheters, almost everyone that needed surgery, but it _was_ different if it was your flatmate. John was in fact quite amused about seeing Sherlock blush scarlet when he had first discovered the drainage bag at the side of his bed. John briefly wondered if there was any blood left in the rest of his patient's body or if it had all gathered in his face. That had in fact been the best proof that Sherlock wasn't as cool as he always claimed to be, as embarrassment was an emotion.

Sherlock had hummed and hawed around the question as to who had inserted the catheter and he was quite relieved that it hadn't been John himself. In fact, John hadn't even noticed when it had been done although he knew the procedures accompanying a surgery and blood loss treatment perfectly well. He had to have been completely wrapped up in his worries to have not noticed.

John avoided talking about the Tabun-topic in general and the missing documents in particular, as he was aware of the fact that Sherlock wouldn't want to rest anymore since he would most likely come to the same conclusion as John about Mycroft's involvement in the vanishing of the papers he had brought from Germany.

He had again tried to call Christoph in Germany and was surprised when his call went through but was deliberately disconnected. Every time he tried to talk to his friend, he wasn't successful. So, John finally called the archive and tried to get through to Christoph there. Once the person that he talked to and asked to get his friend on the phone, forgot to press the mute button, so John overheard Christoph denying his presence. He apparently didn't want to talk to his English friend anymore and John could very well imagine the reason for it – he had to have had an intimidating visitor from London recently. John was sad that he had obviously lost a friend, but at the same time he was relieved that at least Christoph seemed to be physically unharmed.

Sherlock slept a lot and during the times he was awake didn't really want any company. In fact, he was unfriendly, griping and insufferable; however, John blamed his behaviour on his embarrassment and helplessness.

A couple of days went by without any signs of renal failure, so John thought it safe to remove the catheter and, therefore, give Sherlock some more privacy. So the doctor took a pair of rubber gloves, a bin bag and a towel with him and entered his flatmate's room.

"Right, mate, let's get this out." He pointed to the catheter that peeped out from under the blanket.

Sherlock's eyes shot open. He pulled the duvet up to his chin and hissed between gritted teeth, "Don't you dare touch me!"

"Sherlock! Let's get this over with. You know, I have done this hundreds of times and there is absolutely no reason for being embarrassed."

"I'm not – embarrassed," he spat, his complexion proving him completely wrong.

"Yes, you are. But if you don't want me to remove that thing I can as well call your brother to send a nurse to do it. I could also call Sarah or Molly, if you prefer either of them."

Sherlock slowly pushed away the duvet gnashing his teeth and flushing even more.

"That was actually easier than I had thought," John mumbled amazedly, more to himself than to his patient.

"Shut up," was Sherlock's harsh comment. He was literally squirming with uneasiness, so John worked quickly and left the room instantly after having finished. Sherlock needed some time to regain his balance and get over his disconcert. At least he could be very glad that his kidneys hadn't failed him.

When John checked on his flatmate later, he had fallen asleep. The doctor had to admit that the blushing had been a big improvement to Sherlock's complexion. His skin was again competing with the white of his sheets, but finally, the Consulting Detective was over the worst and just needed some more time to recover.

John had informed Mrs Hudson about her boy's condition regularly, as he had promised, but he hadn't heard a word from Mycroft since the day of the nosebleed. The black limousine was still parking in front of a house further up Baker Street, so John knew that there still was one of the emergency team waiting. He was glad, though, that he hadn't needed their help. Occasionally, John forced Sherlock into wearing the breathing mask when, after some exertion, the oxygen saturation went down too much, but mainly his flatmate was alright by now.

"John?"

The addressed person had just put a plate with steaming ham and scrambled eggs and a mug of tea on Sherlock's bedside table and was about to leave the room.

He turned around, looking at Sherlock, who had actually spoken to him for the first time after he had removed the catheter.

"Hm?"

Sherlock's facial expression was rather worrying; it resembled nothing more than a grimace, and John wondered briefly if he was in pain. Then he realised that it was actually Sherlock's attempt at a smile of gratitude. The smile was artificial enough to be painful – he suspected that Sherlock might have no real idea of what such a smile should look like.

"Uhm,… thanks."

John raised his eyebrows. "Oh, Sherlock, is this going to be a habit of yours? Saying thank you, I mean? Be careful, I can actually get used to it and expect you to do it regularly for even more minor things than saving your life. But, yeah, you're welcome. – Oh, by the way, what for exactly?"

"You know what for!"

"As I assume you don't mean the food right now – it's all fine, Sherlock, it's my profession, you know? I told you I'm good." John grinned. He had to admit to himself that he very much enjoyed having the upper hand and being able to prove to Sherlock that not only he was a keen companion in examining dead bodies, but that he was actually doing quite well with living bodies, too.

"Eat and drink something. Your body has to produce heaps of new blood cells, and it needs material for it, so this will help."

Now it was Sherlock grinning. "Oh, you think my blood cells are made of scrambled eggs?"

"Rather than of nothing. So eat," the doctor ordered, "or I'll feed you."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I have had enough of feeling humiliated and helpless for a lifetime!"

"Right. Then eat. I'll get myself a cuppa."

John left the room, only to return with a cup of finest Lady Grey, making himself comfortable in Sherlock's chair and watching his flatmate eat the eggs with much more appetite than John had ever seen in him.

He was wondering if he could talk to him about his findings, when suddenly Sherlock put away the fork, leaned back into his cushions and started talking, the tray with the half-empty plate still on his lap.

"When you were in Germany, I found something. I told you that I remembered the face of the courier but couldn't recall anything about him. It wasn't his face! It was a face very much like it. Brother, I thought, but there was something about it I remembered that didn't fit- the haircut. Old-fashioned. So it must be an older relative. And yet, I never forget anything about people I have once met. I know that I have met a person with the same face as the errand boy, but I don't know anything about him. As I have said before, my memories have been manipulated."

"Hmmm, so where does that lead us? It still doesn't really make sense to me, but maybe there's something that I don't see."

"Which wouldn't be a surprise," Sherlock mumbled, "but no, it doesn't really make sense to me as well. Apart from the fact that I know it has to do with my past."

"Sherlock, listen. I think we're on the right track. I brought some documents from Germany. They were from secret folders. When I came from the airport and you called me because of your nosebleed, I left them downstairs together with my other stuff. They disappeared!"

"How can they disappear? They were secret, you say, not magic, weren't they?"

"Of course not, but there was no one here except for Mycroft and his team. He must have taken the papers!"

"If that's the case there must have been something revealing in them. Quite bad, though, that they're gone."

"Sherlock, you sometimes really underestimate me. I have taken pictures of the documents. And they're still – here." John pulled his mobile from his pocket and proudly presented it to the Consulting Detective. "I had a quick look at them, but unfortunately they didn't give me a clue as to why they could be of such an importance."

"Show me then." Sherlock stretched out a hand.

"Hang on, I have them copied to my laptop, I'll get that for you."

John went to get the computer and when he handed it over to Sherlock, the latter almost snatched it away from him.

He looked through the pictures of the documents and suddenly stopped short, his jaw dropping, the eyes wide open, his mouth slowly forming a long "OHHH…!"


	24. Dizzy spell

Sherlock suddenly shut the lid of the laptop, swung his legs out of the bed, got up and ran out of the room, leaving a stunned John behind.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" he yelled, knowing that his flatmate had got up far too fast.

"Going…" Thud!

"Nowhere…," John finished the sentence drily. "Sherlock!" He got up from the chair hastily and as quickly as possible followed the Consulting Detective, only to find him a few steps away down the hallway, lying unconscious on the floor.

"That was – predictable," John muttered. He wasn't really worried, as after such a blood loss and a couple of days of bed confinement, getting up that fast naturally resulted in orthostatic hypotension and in fainting.

After quickly getting some blankets and cushions, he rolled the unconscious man on his back, wrapped him in a blanket and lay his legs up onto the cushions to get the blood flowing from them into his head.

John knelt down at Sherlock's side and gently slapped his cheeks.

"Ok, Mr. Runaway, wake up!"

It took a couple of minutes until Sherlock's eyes fluttered open.

"I told you about the close acquaintance you'd make with the floor if you rushed up like that," John remarked with amusement.

Sherlock grumbled, blinking his eyes.

"Still dizzy? Stay put, it'll go away."

"Guess, no other choice," he murmured, closing his eyes again.

He stayed like that for some more minutes, John still by his side. Then he opened his eyes, looking at his flatmate determinedly.

"I have to get up, so be a friend and help me."

"Does that imply that, as your doctor, I wouldn't help you?"

"You might want me to go back to bed."

"As your friend I actually _want_ you to do that, as your doctor I _order_ you to do it _instantly_!"

"I really have to talk to my _dear brother_ ," Sherlock said scornfully, trying to sit up and kicking away the cushions.

John reacted quickly and pushed the Consulting Detective back down on the floor, leaning all his weight on him. "Stay there! And now tell me why you suddenly feel the need for a family visit. You know, I did have a look at the documents, too, but I didn't see anything, so fill me in!"

Sherlock struggled to free himself of John's weight, but had to realize that he was too weak and John too strong. So he finally gave in, sighing in deep annoyance.

"I assumed you read the papers, but, as always, you didn't really look at them," he stated caustically.

John slightly let go of Sherlock for a split-second, but then let his full weight push him down again immediately, causing the man on the floor to hiss in pain.

"You're hurting me!" Sherlock complained.

"So are you; so think about what you're saying!" John replied angrily. He really didn't feel like being insulted by his flatmate. He was tired, exhausted and sick of being in a constant state of stress.

"Ok, ok, let go of me!"

John shifted a bit, taking away some of his weight from Sherlock, looking at him expectantly.

"My family was- or is- involved in some dirty business and Mycroft knows about it!" he stated bitterly.

"What do you mean? The Tabun testing?"

"Exactly. There are watermarks of family coats of arms on the papers. You can hardly see them in the photographs. However, there is one that I know very well and would recognize from the tiniest of traces – "

"Yours!" John exclaimed, letting out a puff of air.

Sherlock nodded.

"Oh, wow, so you think…. Well, what do you think?"

"I think that my sod of a brother is hiding something from me and that I really want to get up and question him about it!"

John felt Sherlock's anger and yet knew that the younger Holmes' condition simply didn't allow him to go anywhere.

"You're not going to make it, so I suggest we bring your brother here. However, as he has just stolen some documents from me, I reckon, he won't really want to pay us a visit at the moment."

"He will," Sherlock replied viciously, "and you'll make him."

"Will I? So, what's your scheme?" John asked, slightly confused by the fact that the Holmes family might actually have been involved in a war crime. He wondered how Sherlock _felt_ at the moment. It couldn't be all the same to him, as it was his family; and in fact he was fuming, his glance revealing something dangerous that John had never seen before.

"Let's just pretend that the drug he gave me wasn't actually as harmless as he kept insisting."

"Well, I must say that doesn't really sound like a lie. I still consider it risky. And I am convinced that your nosebleed may have been caused by it."

"That's not important, John."

"Hang on, let me just get this right: You've just found out that your family and maybe your brother have something to do with the testing of weapons of mass destruction on innocent people, and you are still not worried about Mycroft testing drugs on _you?_ You still trust your brother in that?"

"I do. Although Mycroft is the second most dangerous man I know and he has the means and the people to develop and test any vicious drug, weapon, whatsoever, he wouldn't conduct lethal experiments on innocent people and he definitely wouldn't get involved in any business as dirty as that. As you might have noticed, he has strong moral principles."

"Some people might understand that. I don't. You despise your brother, at least you keep telling me so, but you deny some rather obvious facts, don't you?"

"I don't expect you to understand, just accept it. Plus, I'm not _denying_ facts, I can simply _judge_ them better than you! You know as well as I do that there are better weapons than this nerve agent that doesn't even work reliably, so why should Mycroft have anything to do with its testing? Nevertheless, he knows something about it and there must be a reason why he thinks he has the right to access my brain and delete my memories! If my family are involved in a war crime, why am I not supposed to know?"

"Dunno. Whatever it is; it's _your_ family, so I reckon, you know better anyway. I'm out of my depth."

"Yes…" Sherlock noticed the dangerous look on John's face and skipped the rest of what he wanted to say.

"Right then. Let's pretend you are suffering from some nasty after-effect of the drug Mycroft gave you. I suggest you just stay where you are. You're as white as a sheet anyway, so that makes it easy to pretend something has happened to you."

Sherlock made a grumbling sound. "Then call him."

"I don't have to. I just have to walk down the street a few metres and tell the doctor waiting in the car that you're not well. He'll be here instantly and I assume your brother will, too."

"Oh; so there is a post out there?"

"Yup, just in case. One of the prerequisites that I had to accept to be allowed to take care of you here."

"Big brother is watching you."

John was taken aback and shot a surprised glance at Sherlock. Had he just been joking about his brother? John had been convinced so far that his flatmate was highly ignorant in the field of literature, considering books that didn't hold any specific factual information generally useless and not worth reading.

"Well, England isn't quite Oceania, but I guess, that hits the nail on the head."

"Eh?" Sherlock gave John an uncomprehending look. So his reference to one of the most important works of utopian literature had just been accidentally. He _had_ meant it literally.

"Forget it… - Sherlock, what I really don't get is why Mycroft is standing by whenever you are in danger? On the one hand it looks like he cares about you, but on the other hand he took the risk of killing you with that bloody drug! He manipulates your mind to hide something dreadful that has to do with your family or maybe even himself. I can't rid myself of the feeling that your brother is a damn good actor and just _pretending_ to care for you. I'm _scared_ of him, Sherlock, I really am! Damn it!"

"Oh, John, calm down," Sherlock looked up the slightly trembling doctor. His fists were clenched, his face red in excitement. "I'm pretty sure he won't torture us or make us disappear somehow. So get him here!"

The ex-army man pursed his lips, straightened his shoulders and went into the direction of the staircase determinedly. He was completely confused. None of it made sense. He had witnessed that the usually calm and collected personification of the British Government seemed to have lost his composure, but John had always had this nagging feeling that there was something about Mycroft that didn't convince him of his apparent brotherly care and desire to act in Sherlock's best interest. The man had two facets of personality, of that John was sure, but he wasn't at all sure what these facets were.

John walked down the stairs mechanically; then remembered that he had to act. So he stormed out of the front door towards the black limousine, waving his arms furiously. The back door of the car opened immediately and a man in a black suit emerged from it, holding a mobile phone to his ear.

"What's happened, Dr Watson?" he asked while grabbing a large black case from the back seat of the car and moving into John's direction.

"I'm not sure; he was perfectly fine, but suddenly fainted and is still unconscious. I cannot wake him, his pulse is elevated, didn't have time to check on blood pressure, though - there are signs of cerebral haemorrhage. We might have to take him to a clinic, if there's still enough time. Get Mycroft here, just in case…"

"He's on his way."

"Alright, then hurry up."

They hadn't actually talked about what they were going to pretend, but John was sure that Sherlock would keep pretending to be unconscious until Mycroft was there. They only had to ensure that Mycroft's doctor wouldn't recognize the false alarm, or, if he did, that he wouldn't tell his boss about it.

The two men ran back to 221B and up the stairs into the flat. Sherlock was lying on the floor of the hallway to his bedroom, just as John had left him there. Admittedly, it really didn't need much imagination to think that he might be in immediate life-threatening danger. He was incredibly pale and hollow-cheeked and John felt a sudden and very real pang of worry.

Mycroft's doctor crouched down beside Sherlock and examined the apparently unconscious man. When he checked on his pupils, John suddenly noticed that Sherlock wasn't acting – he was out cold.

"Getting the oxygen," John remarked and quickly went into Sherlock's room to retrieve the breathing aid. Most likely the reason for Sherlock passing out on the floor was that he had just got too little oxygen after the unusual exertion of getting up too fast and running around. And yet, he was beginning to worry that he might be wrong or that there was something that he hadn't noticed.

In fact, he was also worried about what would happen if Sherlock didn't wake up soon. Both the doctor and Mycroft himself would think him completely incompetent and an idiot for suggesting that Sherlock might be suffering from a cerebral haemorrhage! There were no real signs for it apart from the unconsciousness and he would have trouble explaining.

When John returned with the oxygen flask, the man in black was busy with preparing an IV.

_Alright, mate, if you don't want another IV then wake up now_ , John thought.

He covered Sherlock's mouth and nose with the breathing mask and adjusted the oxygen flow when suddenly Mycroft stood in the hallway, smiling.

Smiling?!

"So you found out," he said drily.

"Erm, Mycroft, I don't know what you're talking about but your brother's unconscious again, as you can see, and I…"

"You don't have to keep acting. Sherlock, get up."

"He can't, Mycroft, he's unconscious! And why do you bloody think we're acting?" John yelled. He stared at Mycroft, feeling extremely uneasy. It suddenly crossed his mind that Sherlock had been right about big brother watching them. Of course - they were dealing with Mycroft! Not only had he taken the documents, but apparently he had also installed cameras somewhere while he, John, had been too absorbed in treating Sherlock and worrying about him. So he had watched everything that had taken place in the flat and drawn his own conclusions, if he hadn't simply overheard them as well. And yet, he had apparently missed out his brother fainting.

Mycroft didn't say anything, but just gave John a vicious smirk, tilting his head slightly. His superiority was literally streaming from him, soaking everything around him in intimidation.

"He _is_ unconscious," John added weakly, noticing that Mycroft's doctor nodded in the older Holmes's direction.

Mycroft's eyes flickered in his brother's direction, and John suspected he could see just a trace of concern in the older man's expression – an emotion that was just as quickly masked.

"Nothing, though, that cannot be cured with some more oxygen," the medical man stated.

John stood up from his kneeling position and sighed deeply.

"Alright, Mycroft, then once and for all, let's talk straight."

"This is, in fact, none of your business, John. It's something that my brother and I will talk about when he's woken up, but I will not discuss this with anybody outside my family."

"He _is_ my family."

Both John and Mycroft shot around in the direction from which those muffled words had come.

Sherlock had his eyes open, the oxygen mask still on his face, and was watching the two men.

"Repeat that," Mycroft spat disdainfully.

"Yeah, repeat that," John mumbled quietly to himself, shaking his head in disbelief of what he had just witnessed.

Sherlock took away the breathing mask and supported his abdomen with his arms to get into a half-sitting position.

"You understood what I said!" he hissed dangerously.

Mycroft's unpleasant smile broadened.

"I thought that Dr Watson might have some influence on you, but I really hadn't expected that he would turn you of all people in the world into a _family man_." The last two words dripped with sarcasm.

John had watched the scene, stunned. He raised his arms calmingly. "Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT! – Sherlock, if you want me to stay, I'll stay, if not, I'll go."

"Stay," he ordered, having locked eyes with his brother. Anyone who would dare to step between them would instantly drop dead because of the daggers they were glaring.

The situation was so awkward that in fact John felt a strong urge to run away from the two Holmes brothers, but he resisted it and threw a quick glance at the doctor in black, who apparently felt as uneasy as John. However, he would never dare to say a word if he didn't want to lose his job, his reputation and his chance to ever get another occupation. Mycroft nodded slightly and the man left, rather fled. He had literally escaped Circus Maxiumus, the lions circling each other, waiting for the moment to tear apart each other if not the bait. John felt like the latter, although he knew that he wasn't the target of the two, he would just be the victim of a displacement activity. If they were animals, Sherlock would be the loser because he was already on the ground, but it really didn't look like that at the moment. In fact, Mycroft averted his gaze, turned around and walked into the living-room.

"Well then, so be it."


	25. Deductions and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter it becomes obvious that the story was written before series 3. The idea of the Holmes family is slightly different from what we actually got to know about them. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos and for simply reading!   
> \----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John frowned, his eyes following Mycroft. When he had left his sight, John turned to Sherlock and looked at him questioningly, shrugging.

"Help me up, I don't want to have this talk through an open door."

"Sherlock, you've just been unconscious again; I'm not sure if you should really have it now at all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm…fine. - Don't say anything! I'm ok, John."

"Let's hope so."

John stepped over to Sherlock and supported him in getting up slowly. The tall man was swaying slightly and John was afraid that he might pass out again. With shaking legs the younger Holmes made his way to the living-room and dropped heavily into his favourite chair opposite where his brother was sitting. There were tell-tale drops of sweat at his hairline and he had become even paler than before. John wondered if he wouldn't collapse in the next few seconds, the oxygen saturation of his blood definitely being down to a rather insufficient rate. However, this talk had long been overdue and he wouldn't intervene.

"So…," Mycroft introduced the discussion without actually intending to say anything more. John thought that there was something unusual about the older Holmes, a slightly unsteady glance that could be interpreted as nervousness. However, outwardly he was as calm and cool as ever.

"When did you do it? Access my mind palace. I must have been quite young, about ten to twelve, I estimate," Sherlock broke the silence.

"Ten."

"Why?"

"Oh, well, I thought the Master of Deduction would elaborate a bit more."

Sherlock looked at his brother intently, then took a deep breath and spoke.

"While I was knocked out with that – nosebleed, you stole some documents John had obtained from a friend in Germany. However, you made a mistake, Mycroft; you hadn't taken into consideration that John could have taken pictures of the papers, which he had. Secret documents about war crimes, _Tabun_ testing on innocent people, in fact, and our family was involved – I saw the watermark on the letters! As Father would have been too young in World War II, I assume it must have been our grandfather – and someone found out about it, didn't they?"

"Is that all?"

"No. I thought I knew the errand boy who delivered the petri-dishes with the poison. It wasn't him, it was an older relative. I never forget data about people I have once met, but all I know is that I have met a person with a face similar to the errand boy's. So, why is that? There's only one explanation: you had your friend Tobias access my mind palace to delete the data about that person. You couldn't have done it yourself because you don't know how, and the last time I met Tobias was when I was twelve, so some time around ten to twelve. The question remains why? And there's only one person who can answer that, _brother dear_."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but didn't really look surprised. He just waited, so Sherlock continued without averting his gaze from his brother for one second.

"Going from the highly likely fact that it wasn't just coincidence that the errand boy looked like a man I recognize from former times, why would he try to kill me, or at least harm me, with a poison like Tabun? If he had had the intention to really terminate my life he would have chosen a more reliable substance. So, why Tabun? I assume that it has to do with the connection to our family. If our family was involved in the development and testing of the nerve agent, the errand boy might be the offspring of a family that was affected by the experiments back then; maybe some of his relatives were in fact killed by someone from our family and he or his family wanted revenge. Since I'm more or less the only Holmes easily accessible, I became the target – even though I have nothing to do with what happened, and have limited knowledge. Maybe, because they couldn't get hold of _you_ , Mycroft! I wonder what your role in all this is, as you definitely play one, that's for sure."

Sherlock inhaled sharply, then went on.

"We paid the courier, that had originally been in charge the day I got the petri-dish delivery, a visit. However, I noticed I hadn't been the first Holmes to call in on him that day. You should think about carrying your umbrealla with you when it's raining outside - it leaves traces, Mycroft. Someone had paid him off for staying in that day, but that wasn't you. It is highly likely that that had been the fake errand boy. So, why did _you_ go there and threaten him? The man had been scared out of his wits and I assume that had been your work. I think you owe me an explanation, Mycroft!"

Sherlock had rattled his deductions off, speaking faster and faster. However, with the last sentence he had slowed down his speech and pronounced every word distinctively with a dangerously low voice.

John had listened to everything, his gaze alternating between the two brothers. He couldn't believe what he heard, but all the pieces, as Sherlock presented them, fit together. John felt his heartbeat speed up. As calm as Mycroft seemed to be, John was in fact afraid of the older Holmes's reaction. Sherlock's accusations couldn't just leave him cold. He could also see that Sherlock had come to the end of his tether as the drips of sweat found their ways down his face and he had started to blink his eyes occasionally, apparently to get rid of a dizziness that seemed to occur more frequently every minute. He needed a break, but John didn't dare to interrupt the talk.

"Not the most difficult leap," Mycroft stated calmly. "However, I'm still not sure if you really want the whole truth. I might destroy more than just your image of our family."

"Our family!" Sherlock spat scornfully. "Our family has always been a farce, everyone always _somewhere_ but never at home! My nannies were more a family to me than my next of kin."

And that included Mycroft. John didn't know very much about the Holmes family apart from that Sherlock never spoke of his father. However, he annually received birthday cards from his mother, and he had mentioned his grandparents on the very few occasions that he actually talked about his earlier childhood. They had taken care of Sherlock for some time when his mother had fallen ill. However, he had once mentioned that they had left England one day for a reason he didn't know and he had never had any contact with them since then.

"Well," Mycroft started,"... the courier from Bart's had just been, let's say, unreliable, so I just paid him a visit and told him what my opinion about this character trait is. He made up his mind and then decided to quit his job."

Sherlock snorted. "I can imagine what - or who - helped him make his decision! Why?"

"For safety reasons, Sherlock. You have just experienced what happens if people cannot be trusted with the simplest assignments. It's for protection, for yours and others'."

"As if you cared!" the younger Holmes snapped. Mycroft simply raised and eyebrow in response. "Tell. Me. Everything!" Sherlock demanded, the effort it took him to stay alert clearly visible on his face.

"Well, as it seems that I can't convince you otherwise, here you go then." Mycroft leaned back in his armchair, his hands folded in his lap. He actually seemed slightly agitated as his fingers were tipping a nervous rhythm and his eyes revealed something close to – fear? John wondered what it could be that made a man like Mycroft, usually as emotional as a rock, lose his ability to hide his inner self as much as he did now. He had witnessed traces of that during the past few weeks, every time Sherlock had been in immediate danger. This man didn't make sense to John and so he was anxious about what they would hear from him.

Mycroft inhaled and exhaled deeply, seeming to hesitate slightly.

"The truth is - you know the face of the errand boy because he looks pretty much like his grandfather – the man you met when you were ten. When Mummy was in hospital, you, dear brother, had been abducted by him and held captive for a week. Despite the best people in England looking for you, you couldn't be found, until you suddenly appeared back at our house. You had escaped the man, God knows how."

He hesitated again, giving Sherlock an uncertain look. John's eyes flitted from one brother to the other. Sherlock's eyes were wide in his pale face; his entire body language very intent as he looked at his brother.

"However, you weren't unharmed. In fact, you were in a very poor physical and mental condition; of which the first could be easily cured, the latter couldn't. You had nightmares and were withdrawing from everyone – even more than you did anyway-, you didn't eat, didn't sleep and so your physical condition worsened due to your state of mind. It was impossible to get to you, more than it had ever been before. You were on the verge of _dying_ , your mind was about to destroy your body and nobody knew what had actually happened to you or how to help you. We didn't have much of a choice and so I had Tobias access your mind palace to find out what terrible things had occurred and to help you forget them."

He stood suddenly and began to pace up and down, as if he couldn't bear to keep still.

"It's not only that you can't remember the face; you cannot remember a whole period of time. Nobody was ever to speak about that to you again, and Mummy doesn't even know about the entire events. She was too ill back then and I made sure she would never find out. Everyone was sworn to secrecy to protect her and you!"

He sat down again, giving Sherlock a slightly wry smile. "You're not the only one who can be a good detective, Sherlock; I am quite good at it, too, although I prefer to apply my abilities to more reputable purposes. I had already had some useful connections, so I found out that the reason why you were kidnapped was indeed revenge. The revenge of the man whose brother was killed by _our_ _grandfather_ , the lovely man you spent a great deal of your youth with, who didn't have the faintest moral scruples about killing people for his own purposes, just to find out if the nerve agent they had developed in cooperation with the Germans worked well! That was our grandfather, Sherlock! A misanthrope and coward! The truth is that he murdered your kidnapper, never really asking for the reasons for your abduction. The man disappeared before the police could get hold of him and before he could have a fair trial. Of course, nobody had ever been able to prove that, but I know, I found out!"

His voice had risen in pitch and volume, and this last exclamation, almost a shout, echoed around the silent room. John glanced at Sherlock again, concerned about the impact of this revelation on the already weakened man, but the consulting detective's face was blank and the only sign of agitation was his rapidly moving chest. Despite the older brother's obvious sincerity, the doctor could hardly believe this – how was it possible that Sherlock could have forgotten such a traumatic experience? _Had_ he entirely? How had that incident affected his adult life?

As if shaken by his sudden lack of control, Mycroft took a deep breath and made an obvious attempt to calm himself before continuing more quietly.

"What I don't know, however, is if our grandfather felt guilty about what had been done to you and therefore committed the murder, or if it was just to prevent people finding out about his deeds. I don't suppose he really cared for you as he fled from England when he was needed the most by you! I am sure he didn't feel guilty about all the people he had killed for proving that what they had found could be used as a nerve agent, so he probably had no qualms about being responsible for one more, even if that one was his own grandson!"

Mycroft took another deep breath and continued.

"Apparently, two generations later someone felt the urge to take revenge for what had happened for a second time. I assume that the choice of Tabun was meant as a greeting from former times. And unfortunately, you were the target _again_! I _am_ sorry for that, Sherlock. Heaven knows how he found out that you were a descendant of the man who had done such awful things to his family. I can only guess that Moriarty had his hands in that. However, I can _assure_ you that you won't have to fear any harm from that family anymore."

Sherlock had become incredibly pale during Mycroft's report, his breathing growing more ragged and fast until he was almost hyperventilating. John had watched it with increasing worry and was prepared when the Consulting Detective's body slumped in the armchair, slowly falling over – he had passed out. Mycroft quickly leaned forward, gently pushing his brother back into the armchair. The doctor jumped from the sofa, simply stepped over the coffee table, as Sherlock sometimes did himself, and was at his side with one long stride to check on his vitals.

"He'll be ok; I think that was simply too much." he informed the older Holmes.

Mycroft had closed his eyes, wiping his face with his hands. "I knew he wouldn't want to hear it," he stated quietly.

_Not only he_ , John thought, but didn't say anything. That had definitely not been what he had expected. He fetched the oxygen mask and fixed it on Sherlock's face. It seemed that Mycroft's brother was extremely exhausted, as was Mycroft himself; however hyperventilation was pretty unlikely considering his usual state of hypoxemia lately. He looked at the older Holmes who stretched out a hand and almost tenderly touched Sherlock's. Then he got up from his chair.

"I think he really needs to rest."

"Obviously," the completely overwhelmed doctor agreed. His mind was roiling: Mycroft, the saviour and protector of his little brother, Sherlock a victim of torture? John's view of his surrounding world had just been turned upside down and he felt slightly nauseous at the thought of a ten-year-old Sherlock being tormented by someone hardly better han the Holmes grandfather, taking revenge on an innocent child! That was more than despicable!

Just to find a stake in his shaken world John wanted reassurance. "Before you leave, Mycroft… - tell me this: you _really are_ concerned, aren't you?"

"I keep telling you so, John, but you won't believe me." Mycroft answered with one eyebrow raised and a trace of a weary smile in the corners of his mouth.

"Well, things might have changed a bit today." he admitted.

Mycroft gave John a long look, his usually cold eyes mirroring his inner turmoil, eventually nodding.

"Will he cope?" the doctor asked, not quite sure that it had been good to know the truth, either for Sherlock or for him.

"He doesn't remember, John. The memories won't come back. If they did, I am sure he would be destroyed by them. He might be a bit off balance, though, as he might be haunted by…", Mycroft was searching for the proper word, "…emotions," he finally stated with a little derision in his voice in a weak attempt maintain his usual coolness.

"What…," John wanted to ask about the details of Sherlock's abduction and what had happened to the errand boy and his family, but Mycroft interrupted him, shaking his head determinedly.

"No," he simply said, leaving no room for discussion.

The tall man looked exhausted to his bones, worried and more human than John had ever seen him and was sure he would ever see him again.

The doctor gave a brief nod of assent. Maybe it was better if he didn't know.

"He'll have questions, though, Mycroft."

"I will _not_ tell him any further details, no matter what he says. I had sworn to myself never to tell him about his abduction at all, but circumstances – and the two of you – forced me to do so; however, _nothing in the world_ can make me give away any of the things we had found out back then. Nothing."

John didn't have the slightest doubt that Mycroft meant what he said. On the one hand, he appeared to be very determined, but on the other hand, John could sense just a trace of uncertainty and fear in the usual cold manner of the personified British Government.

"I imagine you can manage from now on," Sherlock's brother ended the talk. "If you need my help, you know how to reach me. Good-bye, John. I had better leave you alone now. He might not want to see me when he wakes up. You know, he can be quite touchy about my presence sometimes."

"Possibly not now…," John remarked, but that didn't change the older Holmes' determination to leave.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	26. Emotions and a Scotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Dangerous Mould. The story, however, is continued in the second story of this series, Shot in the Dark, the prologue of which will also be posted today.   
> I hope you enjoyed DM and I hope you'll stay with me. :-) 
> 
> This chapter has multiple POVs, so watch out for the lines that mark the changes.

Mycroft threw a last glance at John and Sherlock, turned around and left the flat, feeling utterly hollow. He had broken his vow of not telling his little brother about the worst experience in his life. He himself had been seventeen back then and they weren't getting along very well as brothers, but he had always cared about Sherlock more than the rest of family, even helping him out of the one or the other awkward situation. Seeing his little brother almost die had been terrible, even for a young man who had learned quite early that he was generally lacking empathy and emotions and didn't really consider this fact disturbing.

Their mother had been in hospital; their father had been overseas – and anyway he had not really been a person that they would go to for help. They had been left in their grandparents' custody, however, were mainly taken care of by nannies. At that time - Mycroft had only later discovered the reasons why – their grandparents suddenly left for a longer stay overseas, and in fact they never came back. The older of the Holmes brothers had been left alone with his nearly dead brother; a fact that had destroyed his relationship with his entire family apart from his mother. Of course there had been doctors and house staff, but no one he could really trust and rely on. He himself had been much more mature than any seventeen-year-old he knew, but after all, he had only been an adolescent.

He had had to witness his younger brother screaming and squirming in physical and mental agony. Mycroft shuddered when he thought about it. It had been unbearable and he had felt so helpless. When Sherlock had already been quite weak, he and his friend Tobias had decided to access his mind palace, making the ten-year-old tell them about the events that were causing him so much pain. Sherlock had sobbed, screamed and raggedly told them about what had happened to him. Sometimes even today Mycroft wished he didn't know about it. It could still send shivers down his spine. Sherlock had been tortured physically and mentally by his abductor - a child that had had to bear the revenge for a war crime he didn't have anything to do with! One didn't have to be very empathetic to be shocked by that. If it hadn't been for his conviction that his grandfather hadn't killed the perpetrator for taking revenge for Sherlock but just for his own protection, he would even have approved of the murder.

He had decided that deleting the memories was Sherlock's only chance of survival. It had taken a long time to do it properly, every session being painful for all its participants. However, Sherlock had slowly recovered, only being haunted by nightmares occasionally. Even those had left him after a while. Mycroft himself had had to struggle to cope with the knowledge about his brother's ordeal, but he had managed during the years that he had been at university, partly due to not seeing Sherlock very often. However, during the past few weeks, he had been caught by the same agony that he had felt back then and it had disturbed and even frightened him. He could only be as good in his job as he was, _because_ emotions weren't hindering him, slowing down his mind in making crucial decisions.

Since Sherlock couldn't remember the period of time when Mycroft had been the only truly caring person in their family, he didn't blame him for not being more approachable. Many things had happened since then and Mycroft had been there for Sherlock when he had needed him – much to his brother's dismay. When he had become addicted to drugs and almost killed himself, he had watched over his withdrawal, which had worsened their relationship as Sherlock despised showing physical and mental weakness more than anything else in the world. What had started as a childish feud had turned into regular banters and skirmishes, those becoming normality and nothing either of them would worry about. They were simply too different in many ways and far too alike in others.

Mycroft didn't know if and how all these revelations would change their relationship. At least they could be sure that they wouldn't be bothered or threatened by the errand boy's remaining family – they had already left England and would never come back if they didn't want to be subject to sudden definitely lethal accidents.

When the man in the three-piece suit and with the umbrella over his arm stepped out of the front door of 221B Baker Street, the door to a black limousine was instantly opened for him, but he refused to enter. He needed some fresh air and decided to walk despite the chilly temperature and the cool wind.

* * *

 

John didn't really know what to think, he just busied himself with checking on Sherlock, pushing the other armchair closer to his in order to rest his legs on it.

From what Mycroft had just revealed, he had misjudged him completely as far as his caring for his brother was concerned. However, from what he _hadn't_ revealed, John felt his fear confirmed – Mycroft _was_ dangerous if one got in his way. He wondered what means he had taken to get rid of any remaining danger from the family which had been destroyed by the Holmes brothers' grandfather.

Suddenly Sherlock's breathing became more ragged and it seemed as if he couldn't get any air in. John shook his friend's shoulders, trying to wake him up. The doctor himself was close to fainting from fatigue and stress and he wasn't sure if he was actually in a state in which he would be able to act reasonably if anything happened to Sherlock now.

* * *

 

The world outside Sherlock's mind was quiet, but inside there was noise, turmoil – screaming that caused him pain. Something was welling up and it was burning his insides, tearing him apart. He tried to escape the noise and the pain, but it didn't work. It was the echo of something much more painful. Sherlock felt the icy fear that crawled up his spine. There were no pictures related to that fear, no visual memories that could explain it, but the fear itself was a memory that he could not forget, however long forgotten it had been, that was clenching its cold fingers around his heart. It was suffocating him. He tried to catch a breath, but couldn't. He struggled to flee from the emotions that caused his heart to race and his brain to hurt. He had to open his eyes as he felt that the agony would become better when he managed to focus on something outward, away from his mind. His world was shaking – he was shaking, no, he was shaken! It cost him a lot of effort, but after some fight he could open his eyelids and a sudden flash of relief went through his body. He looked straight into the face of his flatmate, who was watching him worriedly. John was someone to hold on to, his presence being soothing and making the pain more bearable. His breathing became more even, the echo of the fear already subsiding.

* * *

 

"You ok?" Sherlock's flatmate asked, although it was only a rhetorical question. He could see that he wasn't ok. Sweat was running down his cheeks and his pulse was elevated, his eyes reflecting his inner shaken self. Sherlock probably couldn't remember what had happened during and after his abduction, but he apparently _felt_ something. Going from the reaction of his body, it had to be something close to pain.

Sherlock fidgeted with the breathing mask to get it off.

"Where's Mycroft," he whispered.

"Gone," John stated. "You've got questions, haven't you?"

Sherlock nodded, wiping away traces of cold sweat from his face.

"He assured me he wouldn't tell you any further details anyway, and, to be honest, I think that is a good decision."

"It's not mine, though." Sherlock remarked, already with a slightly annoyed undertone that generally accompanied comments about anything his brother had done or said.

John snorted briefly. "You've had more than you could cope with, so for once in your life accept the decision your brother has made for you. It's a good one."

Sherlock closed his eyes as if he was thinking about it; then he mumbled, "Maybe."

John frowned, then shrugged and turned around into the direction of the kitchen.

"I'm getting you something to drink."

"Yes, a double Scotch would be great."

The doctor shot around, staring at his flatmate in amazement. "Did I hear that right? You want alcohol?" Sherlock never really drank alcohol, he only occasionally took a couple of sips when in company, but John had never before heard him order a _double_ drink! Only once had John really seen Sherlock take more than a tiny sip. That had been when he had been in emotional trouble, too, back then when they were investigating in Baskerville. On that occasion, he hadn't been able to trust his mind, having apparently seen the Baskerville creature although he knew that it couldn't possibly exist. So Sherlock _was_ clearly emotionally disturbed.

"I think that this is the most appropriate moment in my life to have a glass, don't you think?" he asked with some bitterness in his voice.

"Erm, actually, yes and no. Yes, because I think I need one, too. No, because I think it's simply not a good idea to have alcohol in your condition – it definitely isn't good for your body and will go straight into your head."

"Good. I'll have it then."

John hesitated, but in fact he was longing for a drink, too. So he went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of Scotch. Upon returning into the living-room, he saw Sherlock watch his hand – it was shaking. He looked up at John.

"This time I know it's something real that makes my body react in such a way, although I don't know _exactly what_ it is, John. All I know is that it scares me! I'm afraid of my _emotions_ , John, I really am – I can't deny them and I _hate_ it! There are reasons why I usually consider sentiment a chemical defect."

"Have a sip, it might actually help," John tried to soothe the Consulting Detective. Sherlock seemed to be really shaken by what he had learned from his brother, the suddenly emerging memories of his feelings obviously washing over him.

With a shaking hand he took the glass from John and knocked it back at once, shuddering from the strong taste of the Scotch. He let the hand with the glass sink into his lap, watching it with a frown.

John was leaning sideways at the back of the armchair in which Sherlock's feet were resting. He scrutinized his friend as he really doubted that alcohol had been a good idea after everything his flatmate's body – and mind – had gone through.

"If you need my help in any way, just let me know," the ex-army doctor offered.

Sherlock looked up at him, a shadow of the strong tumult in him obvious in his gaze. He was blinking away the tears that had gathered in his eyes. John was shocked that he didn't even try to hide them as he usually would. However, this situation was far from usual. He felt strong sympathy for his friend and he would have given him a tight hug, if he hadn't been Sherlock who generally shied away from physical contact. John wondered if the reason for it probably lay in anything that had to do with his abduction.

Although tears were streaming down his cheeks now, Sherlock kept his eyes locked with John's. They reflected the agony he felt, begging for ease from the mental pain. John didn't know how to react, but finally made a few slow steps forward until he was standing at his friend's side. He crouched down and hesitatingly embraced the younger man, being prepared to be rejected.

It didn't happen. On the contrary, Sherlock laid his chin on his flatmate's shoulder, his shoulders starting to shake violently, letting out deep sobs. John felt tears of sympathy running down his face and wetting Sherlock's collar.

For quite a long time they stayed in this position until the sobs slowed down and Sherlock raised his chin, taking off the weight of his head from John's shoulder, who understood this as a sign to let go of him. He leaned back, feeling that his legs were about to get numb. So he stood up, taking a glance at Sherlock.

He looked much younger than he normally did – more like a boy than a man in his thirties - and somehow fragile. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hands, then looked up at John. His vision was slightly unsteady and he seemed to have difficulties focussing.

"Shohn, you're my o…onl..y ffriennd," he slurred. The alcohol had definitely done its work. Sherlock wasn't used to drinking and his physical condition did the rest. As awkward as the situation was, John had to smile as Sherlock showed clear signs of being more than just tipsy.

"You have a brother, though, Sherlock. One who really cares for you – don't forget that. But thanks anyway."

"Brrrotherrr – yeah," was all that the Consulting Detective managed to say before his head fell on his shoulder. He had fallen asleep. John put the oxygen mask back on his face, fetched a blanket and covered his friend with it. Having done that, he sank wearily into his own seat. He laughed, a little shakily, sipped from his glass and leaned his head back, gazing at the ceiling. They all needed time to process all that had happened during the past weeks and he was wondering how things would be between Mycroft, Sherlock and himself. He didn't have the faintest idea, but time alone would tell.

So, for the first time in days, peace finally descended on 221B Baker Street. As his empty glass clattered to the floor from his limp hand and his head dropped back against the chair, John's last thought before falling into oblivion was to wonder how long it would last.


End file.
